LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORtflS 
DAVIS 


. .    • 


•LITERARY    REMAINS 


JOSEPH  BROWN  LADD,  M,  D. 

COLLECTED  BY   HIS   SISTER, 

MRS.    ELIZABETH    HASKINS, 

OP     KHODE     ISLAND. 

f^-.  ._  1 

TO  Wllica  IS  PRKFIT1D, 

A  SKETCH   OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LIFE, 

'. 

BY 

IV.    B.    CH1TTENDEN. 


., 


Ami  whore  be  they  who  sang  their  rugged  hymtw 
O'er  freedom's  cradle — cherished  now  no  more 
•      Save  in  their  heart*  who  stood  in  that  dark  hour 
Battling  fur  hearth  and  home  1    Let  pious  hand* 
Embalm  tboiie  lays  ere  yet  their  echoed  die, 
And  give  our  early  bards  their  fame. 


NEW  YORK: 

H.  C.  SLEIGHT,  CLINTON  HALE. 

1832. 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
DAVIS 


\4t4 


, 


TO 

DOCTOR  J.   WHITHEUGE, 

CHARLESTON,   S,  I*. 


" 


DEAR  SIR, 

THE  following  publication  is  au  attempt, 
to  rescue  from  oblivion  the  scattered  .relics  of  a  genius 
which,  had  it  reached  mrturity,  would  liavc  shed  lus 
tre  on  the  age  that  pn  duced  it.  Dr.  Liidd,  as  you 
are  aware,  perished  nerirly  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  very 
dawn  of  manhood.  In  .this  age  of  fastidious  taste 
and  severe  criticism  when  it  requires  no  small  de 
gree  of  courage  eve.i  for  matured  talent  to  come  be 
fore  the  public  wit  a  its  most  elaborate  efforts,  it  may 
appear  presumptuous  to  bring  forward  these  imper 
fect  productions.  In  justice  to  their  author,  they 
ought  to  be  compared  only  with  the  writings  of  his 
cotemporaries,  due  allowance  being  made  for  Jiis 
youth  and  limited  means  of  education.  This  indul 
gence  granted,  it  is  hoped  they  will  prove  not  an  un 
welcome  offering  to  those  who  love  to  dwell  upon  the 
early  history  of  our  republic ;  since  genius  and  the 
labors  of  genius  form  an  important  ingredient  in  that 
glory  of  a  nation,  which  the  patriot  is  wont  to  contem- 


bv\. 
V          240390 


IV  DEDICATION. 

plate  with  honest  pride.  In  presenting  the  following 
work  to  the  public,  with  the  hope  just  expiessed,  I 
am  happy  in  being  allowed  to  grace  it  with  the  name 
of  one,  not  only  distinguished  for  talents  and  learn 
ing,  .for  his  patronage  of  living  merit,  his  fidelity  to 
the  memory  of  departed  worth,  and  his  readiness  to 
claim  for  our  country  every  ray  of  glory  shed  upon 
her  annals  by  the  genius  and  achievements  of  her 
sous,  but  who  adds  to  these  the  more  endearing  claim 
of  having  been  in  early  life  the  intimate  companion 
and  valued  friend  of  the  juvenile  author. 

'To  you,  therefore,  who  kn<;w  and  loved  him,  who 
witnessed  the  dawning  of  his  bold  and  bright  intel 
lect,  and  wept-  over  his  untimely  grave — to  you,  sir, 
with  a  sense  of  obligation  for  the  permission,  the  lite 
rary  remains  of  Joseph  Brown  Ladd  are  respectfully 
inscribed  by  their  editor. 

ELIZABETH  RASKINS. 


SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LIFE. 


BROWN  LADD,  the  author  of  the  miscellany 

now  presented  to  the  public,  died  nearly  half  a  century 
.'•  ••*•"' 

.  ago ;  and  at  this  distant  period,  little  can  be  ascertained 

with  accuracy  in  regard  to  his  short  but  brilliant  ca 
reer.    He  was  the  eldest  son  of  William  and  Sarah 
Ladd,  of  Newport,  Rhode  Island ;  at  which  place  he 
was  born,  in  1764.    He  was  therefore  a  mere  child  at 
the  breaking  out  of  the  war  of  the  revolution.    Bear 
ing  this  in  mind,  the  reader  need  only  be  informed,  in 
addition,  that  his  father's  pecuniary  circumstances  were 
moderate,  to  know  that  his  opportunities  of  education 
•  must  have  been  very  limited.    A  system  of  common, 
schools  established  by  law  was   unknown  in  Rhode 
Island ;  and  owing  to  the  embarrassment  of  the  times, 
scarcely  a  single  institution  for  the  study  of  the  higher 
1* 


V    •  SKETCH  OF  THE 

branches  of  science  or  literature  was  in  operation.;  or  if 
in  operation,  they  were  beyond  the  reach  of  any  but 
the  wealthy.  Private  and  neighborhood  schools,  how- 
over,  were  not  wanting ;  arid  of  the  best  of  these  in 
Newport,  young.  Ladd,  during  the  first  ten  years  of  his 

life,  from  time  to  time  had  the  benefit.    But,  in  general, 

• 
little  more  was  aimed  at  in  them  than  the  mechanical 

parts  and  first  elements  of  an  English  education ;  and 
to  these,  it  is  believed  Iho  instruction  afforded  him  was 
confined.  Ho  never  afterwards  attended  a  school  of 
any  description. 

.  Of  the  method  of  elementary  instruction  then  in 
vogue,  and  which,  in  spite  of  modern  improvements, 
still  prevails  to  a  great  extent,  it  .may  be  remarked  that 
it  was  calculated  to  paralyze  rather  than  to  benefit  the 
mind ;  for  it  did  violence  to  nature.  Knowledge  is  the 
aliment  of  the-  mind ;  but  it  is  the  knowledge  of  sensi 
ble,  or  at  farthest,  of  imaginable  objects,  which  is 
adapted  to  its  infant  state.  Abstractions,  abstruse  con 
clusions,  and  relations,  form  the  proper  exercise  of  ma- 
turer  faculties.  The  fault  of  the  system  alluded  to 
was,  that  it  commenced  by  forcing  upon  the  memory 
lessons  which  the  understanding  could  not  comprehend. 


Vll. 

The  child  became  disgusted  with  the  labor  imposed 
upon  him,  and  could  only  be  aroused  to  exertion  by 
gome  ulterior  motive,  such  as  fear,  emulation,  interest, 
or  ambition — motives  which  never  yet  made  a  scholar. 
The  reverse  of  this  is  undoubtedly  the  correct  course. 
Cuiiosity  is  the  strongest  trait  of  childhood,  and  it  is 
gratified  by  knowledge  adapted  to  the  capacities  of  the 
4  mind.  That  which  gratifies  at  the  same  time  stimu 
lates  it ;  and  when  stimulated  to  a  high  degree  in  refer 
ence  to  proper  objects,  it  becomes  a  passion  which  we 
dignify  by  the  name  of  "  a  thirst  for  knowledge" — a 
passion ' which  looks  upon  obstacles,  not  as  "uncon 
querable  bars,"  but  as  things  to  be  overcome.  Without 
it,  none  need  aspire  to  intellectual  eminence ;  while  its 
possessor  will  cither  consume  in  its  fires,  or  illumine  the 

age  in  which  ho  lives.      Common  sense,  therefore, 
• 

would  seem  to  dictate  that  this  passion  should  be  ex 
cited  (as  it  easily  can  be)  before  even  the  alphabet  is 
put  into  the  child's  hands.  The  labor  of  acquiring  the 
elementary  branches  would  then  be  regarded  as  the 
means  of  gratifying  the  passion  thus  aroused,  and  sub 
mitted  to  with  alacrity ;  and  what,  under  the  old  sys- 


V  SKETCH  OF  THE 

tern,  was  the  labor  of  years,  would  be  accomplished  in 
as  many  months. 

The  accidental  excitement  of  this  passion  for  know 
ledge,  in  early,  childhood,  in  connection  with  a  constitu 
tional  ardor  of  temperament,  is  perhaps  sufficient  to  ac 
count  for  the  most  surprising  instances  of  precocious  ge 
nius  on  record ;  and  undoubtedly  illustrates  the  case  of 
the  subject  of  this  memoir.  The  elementary  schools 
which  he  had  attended,  however  imperfect,  having  fur 
nished  him  with  the  key  of  knowledge,  his  mind  was 
too  bold  and  enterprising,  and  too  thoroughly  stimu 
lated,  to  remain  on  the  threshold  for  want  of  a  guide. 
With  the  heroism  of  true  genius,  he  plunged  into  the 
labyrinth  alone, 

"Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  his  toils, 

11  Proud  to  be  daring." 
»   * 

Devoting  himself  incessantly  to  study,  to  the  neglect  of 
the  ordinary  sports  of  childhood,  and  possessing  an  un 
usual  quickness  of  intellect,  his  progress  must  necessa 
rily  have  been  rapii  There  is  reason  to  believe,  that 
at  the  age  of  eleven,  without  instruction,  except  what 
has  been  stated,  or  other  facility  save  the  possession  of 


IX 

books,  he  had  made  no  small  proficiency  in  mathema 
tics,  acquired  such  a  knowledge  of  Latin  as  to  read  au 
thors  in  that  language  with  satisfaction,  and  accom 
plished  an  extensive  course  of  historical  reading.  Ho 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  Bible,  and  could  re 
peat  a  large  portion  of  it  from  memory. 
. 

Even  at  this  early  age,  a  passion  for  scribbling  had 
seized  him,  and  was  frequently  indulged  in.  One  of 
his  pieces  in  verse,  entitled  "An  address  to  the  Al 
mighty,"  written  at  the  age  of  ten,  is  preserved  in  the 
following  pages.  It  was  first  published  in  a  newspaper 
edited  by  Solomon  South  wick,  of  Newport,  and  deemed 
worthy  of  a  place  in  a  collection  of  hymns  compiled 
shortly  afterwards,  in  which,  the  author  being  un 
known,  it  was  by  mistake  attributed  to  Collet.  What-  , 
ever  may  be  said  of  its  poetical  merit,  it  is  the  effusion 
of  a  feeling  heart  and  reflecting  mind,  and  evinces  tho 
most  correct  views  on  the  .part  of  the  infant  writer,  of 
his  relation  to  his  fellow-creatures,  and  to  the  Author  of 
his  being. 

In  1775,  Mr.  Ladd  removed   to   Little   Compton, 
Rhode  Island,  where  he  purchased  a  farm,  and  put  in  . 
requisition  the  labor  of  his  sons  for  its  cultivation.  This, 


X  •  SKETCH  OP  THE 

to  the  subject  of  our  memoir,  was  a  most  unwelcome 
change.  Ho  soon  became  discontented  with  his  new 
occupation,  not  from  any  indolence  of  disposition,  but 
because  it  wholly  interrupted  the  studies  to  which  he 
had  devoted  his  soul,  and  threw  a  gloom  over  those 
gorgeous  but  undefined  visions  of  future  greatness, 
which  we  may  suppose  were  indulged  in  by  a  boy 
of  his  ardent  spirit,  who  had  become  conversant  with 
the  deeds  and  sentiments  of  the  great  men  of  past  ages. 
He  made  no  secret  of  his  unconquerable  aversion  to  the 
drudgery  of  agriculture ;  and  had  recourse  to  various 
stratagems  to  escape  from  it  when  compelled  to  labor 
by  parental  authority.  On  one  occasion,  he  fitted  up  a 
study  in  a  thicket  of  alder-bushes,  in  an-  inclosure 
through  which  he  had  to  pass  to  his  employment,  in  a 
manner  so  ingenious  as -to  elude  discovery  for  many 
months.  Having  furnished  it  with  a  number  of  his  far 
vorite  authors,  he  daily  spent  there  as  much  time  as  he 
dared  to  withhold  from  the  labors  of  the  farm,  proving 
in  his  solitary  revels  the  sweetness  of  stolen  waters. 
When  reprimanded  by  his  father  (as  he  frequently  was 
with  much  severity)  for  his.  neglect  of  business,  and  ad 
monished  of  the  future  consequences  of  indolence,  his 


reply  was,  "  my  head,  sir,  and  not  my  hands,  must  sup- 
port  me." 

An  experiment  of  three  years  at  length  convinced  his 
father  of  the  impossibility  of  reconciling  him  to  a  far 
mer's  life,  and  the  necessity  of  giving  him  some  other 
profession,  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  therefore,  he  was 
placed  in  a  mercantile  establishment.  But  this  proved 
even  more  revolting  to  his  taste  than  his  former  occupa 
tion.  In  that,  if  but  little  opportunity  was  afforded  for 
reading,  there  was  much  for  reflection  and  reverie. 
The  duties  of  a  farmer  are  mostly  simple,  and  may 
be  rendered  so  purely  habitual,  that  the  attention  re 
quired  of  the  mind  shall  form  but  a  slight  interruption 
to  the  more  engrossing  trains  of  thought  by  which  it  is 
occupied.  Thus,  some  of  the  sweetest  effusions  of 
Burns  were  composed  while  following  the  plough. 
But  in  a  store,  an  unremitted  wakefulncss  of  attention 
is  required  to  minute  particulars,  and  a  value  attached 
to  trifles  which  in  the  eyes  of  Ladd  must  have  been 
worthless.  For  one  whose  habit  of  abstraction  from 
objects  of  sense  for  the  pursuit  of  intellectual  pleasures, 
had  become  so  unconquerable,  a  situation  of  greater 
discomfort  could  hardly  be  imagined,  and  he  endured  it 


Xll  SKETCH  OF  THE 

.but  for  a  few  months,  when,  at  hia  urgent  request,  he 
was  removed, 

His  next  location  was  in  the  printing-office  of  Mr. 
Southwick,  of  Newport,  where,  it  was  thought,  he 
might,  while  acquiring  a  trade,  gratify,  in  some  mea 
sure,  his  inordinate  passion  for  books.  Here  he  re 
mained  about,  a  twelvemonth ;  and  the  anecdotes  related 
of  him  forcibly  bring  to  mind  the  career  of  Franklin  in 
a  similar  situation.  It  was  during  this  year  that  a 
gentleman  of  Newport,  having  remarked  his  ready 
talent  at  composition,  induced  him  to  write  some  bal 
lads  upon  certain  quacks  with  whom  the  town  was  in 
fected.  These  performances,  which  are  now  lost,  .are 
said  to  have  been  specimens  of  the  most  vigorous  satire. 
Transported  beyond  the  bounds  of  propriety  by  the  ap 
plause  which  they  elicited,  and  instigated  by  the  person 
who  had  before  employed  him,  he  aimed  at  a  more  con 
spicuous  but  less  vulnerable  object,  and  in  a  satirical 
poem  dared  to  assail  the  venerable  Hopkins,  who,  not 
being  disposed  to  bear  such  abuse  from  a  boy,  had  re 
course  to  parental  authority  for  redress.  The  sensation 
produced  by  this  unjustifiable  attack  was  probably  the 
immediate  occasion  of  his  removal  from  the  printing- 


AUTHOR'S  LIFE.  XV 

»' 
i 

in  hand,  the  thoughts  suggested  to  his  mind,  the  con 
clusions  which  he  arrived  at  on  disputed  points,  and  his 
reasonings  in  opposition  to  the  author  under  perusal, 
were  noted  down,  and  frequently  took  the  form  of  cri 
tiques  and  theses  of  various  lengths,  which,  though 
written  in  haste  for  his  own  use,  and  therefore  unfit  for 
publication,  show,  at  least,  the  severity  of  the  mental, 
discipline  to  which  he  subjected  himself,  as  well  as  the 
variety  of  important  subjects  to  which  his  attention  was 
directed.  Indeed,  self-taught  as  he  was,  it  may  be  as 
sumed,-  at  the  end  of  the  four  years  which  he  spent 
with  Dr.  Senter,  that  in  academical  attainments  (inde 
pendent  of  his  professional  studies)  he  was  not  behind 
the  graduates  of  the  best  public  institutions  then  in  ope 
ration.  In  mathematics  his  course  had  been  unusually 
extensive.  Of  chemistry,  in  its  then  imperfect  state  as 
a  science,  and  in  physics,  his  knowledge  was  as  ample 
as  could  be  acquired  by  a  diligent  perusal  of  the  best 
treatises,  without  the  aid  of  apparatus  and  experiments. 
Physiology,  of  course,  as  belonging  to  his  professional 
studiesj  was  not  neglected.  The  writings  of  Locke 
had  been  read  with  delight,  and  were  his  guide  in  men- 
'  tal  philosophy,  as  were  the  lectures  of  Blair  in  the  de- 


XVI  SKETCH  OF  THE 

partment  of  rhetoric  and  criticism,  He  had  studied  the 
Greek  and  Latin  classics  usually  comprised  in  a  colle 
giate  course,  in  connection  with  the  antiquities  and  my 
thology  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Besides  these,  he  is 
known  to  have  been  acquainted  with  Hebrew,  and 
familiar  with  the  French  language  and  literature* 
though  these  were  perhaps  acquired  subsequently  to 
the  period  above  mentioned. 

.  In  his  hours  of  relaxation,  the  English  poets  and 
essayists  were  his  favorite  companions;  and  as  in  his 
severer  studies  the  authors  he  consulted  were  made  use 
of  only  as  aids  to  his  investigation  of  the  subjects  upon 
which  they  treated ;  so  his  light  reading  served  as  a 
means  of  exciting  his  own  fancy,  and  usually  pro 
duced  some  effort  at  composition  either  in  prose  or 
verse.  In  his  occasional  visits  at  Little  Compton,  his 
time  was  generally  occupied  in  this  manner.  Most  of 
the  poetical  pieces  published  in  this  volume  were  writ 
ten  during  .his  residence  with  Dr.  Senter;  but  they 
form  only  a  small  proportion  of  what  he  wrote.  The 

•  greater  part,  and  probably  the  most  valuable  of  them, 

•  ,' 

are  now  irrecoverably  lost. 


^ 


AUTHOR'S  LIFE.  xvii 

Some  of  these  pieces  appeared  in  the  newspapers  of 
the  day,  under  the  name  of  Arouet — a  name  which  he 
always  afterwards  retained,  and  by  which  he  became 
at  length  well  known  to  the  public.  At  the  period  we 
are  speaking  of,  however,  he  rarely  ever  wrote  with  a 
view  to  publication,  but  rather  for  the  sake  of  the  plea 
sure  it  gave  him,  and  the  improvement  he  expected  to 
derive  from  it  as  an  exercise.  He  could  not  help  being 
flattered  by. the  eagerness  with  which  his  manuscripts 
were  sought  after  by  his  acquaintances ;  and  not  un- . 
frequently  expressed  a  hope  that  at  a  future  day  he 
might  produce  something  fit  for  the  eye  of  the  public : 
but  his  standard  of  excellence,  in 'writing  was  high; 
and,  fully  alive  to  the  defects  of  these  juvenile  effusions, 
,he  never  would  have  published  them,  himself,  and  it 
was  with  extreme  reluctance  that  he  permitted  his 
friends  to  do  it. 

It  is  but  justice  to  remind  the  reader  of  this  fact,  as 
well  as  of  the  time  at  which  these  pieces  were  written, 
that  they  may  be  compared  only  with  the  poetry  with 
which  the  author  was  conversant,  and  from  which  his 
taste  was  formed.  This  ought  especially  to  be  kept  in 
view  in  reference  to  the  amatory  effusions  inscribed  to 
1* 


.     SKETCH  OF  Till:        •  % 

"Amanda."  Love-letters  in  rhyme  are  now  out  of 
date;  and  at  best  were  but  an  indifferent  medium  for 
the  expression  of  the  master  passion,  which  has  indeed 
a  language  of  its  own,  unutterable  by  tongue  or  pen. 
Even  when  most  in  vogue,  such  compositions  were 
chargeable  in  no  small  degree  with  affectation — the 
sentiment  versified  being  generally  fictitious,  and  ad 
dressed  to  an  imaginary  mistress.  But  the  poetical  let 
ters  of  Arouet  to  Amanda  were  dictated  by  genuine 
feeling,  During  the  latter  part  of  his  residence  with 
Dr.  Senter,  he  became  attached  to  the  lady  whom  he 
chose  to  address  by  that  name — a  being  "lovely  to  soul 
and  to  eye" — and  this  new  sentiment,  it  is  needless  to 
say,  partook  largely  of  the  fervor  and  enthusiasm 
which  formed  so  prominent  an  ingredient  in  his  character. 
She  was  an  orphan  heiress,  under  the  guardianship  of 
mercenary  relatives,  who  finding  the  management  of 
her  estate  a  source  of  profit  to  themselves,  did  not 
hesitate  to  sacrifice  her  happiness  to  their  own  interest. 
As  their  trust  would  terminate  with  her  marriage,  they 
seemed  resolved  to  delay  such  an  event  as  long  as  pos 
sible,  if  not  to  prevent  it  altogether.  Hence  they  stre 
nuously  opposed  the  advances  of  Ladd,  refusing  their 


XIX 

countenance  to  his  suit,  and  endeavoring,  by  a  species 
of  petty  tyranny,  to  break  off  his  intercourse  with  her, 

*  Not  content  with  open  opposition,  they  had  -recourse  to 
calumnies,  which,  though  groundless,  were  so  ingeni 
ously  devised,  and  industriously  bruited,  as  at  one  time 
to  shake  the 'confidence  of  some  of  his  best  friends.  It 
was  while  suffering  under  these  wrongs,  and  brooding 
over  the  many  obstacles  which  stood  between  him  and 
the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes,  that  the  letters  to 
Amanda  were  written.  From  their  plaintive  tenor,  one 
is  at  first  led  to  suppose  him  harping  upon  the  stale 
topic  of  unrequited  love.  But  this  was  fur  from  being 
the  case.  The  lady  in  question  returned  his  affection 
with  equal  warmth,  and  duly  appreciated  his  worth, 
notwithstanding  the  efforts  made  to  destroy  his  charac 
ter  in  her  estimation.  His  narrow  circumstances,  and, 
as  yet,  uncertain  prospects,  and  the  opposition  of  her 

i  guardians,  to  say  nothing  of  the  youth  of  both  parties, 
prevented  their  mania ge  at  the  time  ;  but  they  did  not 
pre/ent  a  private  engagement  between  them,  which 
continued  up  to  the  period  of  his  untimely  death.  She 
survived  him,  indeed,  for  several  years,  but  never  wholly 
recovered  from  the  shock  occasioned  by  that  event. 


f , 

fr 

XX  r  SKETOfl  OF  THE 

In  1783,  Ladd  closed  his  studies  with  Dr.  Senter, 
and  received  license  to  practice  medicine.  While  on 
the  look-out  for  a  location,  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
make  the  acquaintance  and  secure  the  friendship  of 
Gen,  Nathaniel  Green,  who  had  just  returned  from  the 
field  of  his  military  labors,  to  the  bosom  of  his  native 
state.  By  his  advice,  Ladd  was  induced  to  try  his  for- 
.-tune  in  the  southern  states;  and  shortly  after  removed 
to  Charleston,  S.  €.,  where,  in  the  spring  following,  being 
then  in  his  twentieth  year,  he  commenced  the  practice 
of  medicine.  An  introduction  from  "the  hero  of  the 
south,"  for  whose  distinguished  services  in  the  revolu 
tionary  struggle  then  just  closed,  every  heart  was  filled 
with  gratitude,  could  not  fail  of  securing  to  our  aspi 
rant  the  ready  confidence  of  the  people  whose  patron 
age  he  sought.  Commencing  his  professional  career 
under  such  favorable  auspices,  iiis  assiduity,  his  success 
in  the  treatment  of  difficult  cases,  and  his  engaging 
manners,  soon  gave  him  an  extent  of  practice  such  as 
physicians  generally  think  themselves  fortunate  in  ob- 
taming  after  a  probation  of  many  years. 

Beneath  the  caresses  and  approving  smiles  of  the 
warm-hearted  Carolinians,  his  genius  seemed  to  receive 


XXI 

new  life,  and  burst  forth  with  fresh  luxuriance.  He 
now,  for  the  first  time,  felt  encouraged  to  come  forward 
as  a  writer  in  the  public  journals ;  and  his  contribu 
tions,  which  were  continued  as  regularly  as  his  other 
duties  would  permit,  were  received  with  unequivocal 
applause.  He  sported  in  every  measure  of  verse,  and 
is  known  to  have  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  most  of 
the  topics  of  public  interest  at  the  time.  The  critique 
on  Dr.  Johnson's  works,  however,  is  the  only  one  of  his 
prose  essays  written  during  that  year  which  can  now 
be  found ;  but  that  will  suffice  to  illustrate  the  indepen 
dent  character  of  his  mind.  It  was  a  bold  deed  for  a 
stripling  of  his  age  to  cast  the  first  stone  at  the  literary 
giant  in  the  very  hour  of  his  triumph ;  but  he  dealt  a 
palpable  hit;  and  the  justice  of  his  remarks  is  well 
sustained  by  the  decision  of  later  times. 

In  the  next  year,  1785,  we  hear  of  him  as  the  orator 
named  by  Governor  Moultrie  to  deliver  an  address  in 
presence  of  the  executive  authority  and  the  Cincinnati 
of  South  Carolina,  on  the  birth-day  of  American  inde 
pendence.  To  the  citizens  of  Charleston  is  due  the  ho 
nor  of  first  marking  the  anniversary  of  this  event  by 
public  demonstrations  of  joy.  This  was  on  the  4th  of 


XXII  SKETCH  OF  THE 

July,  1778,  when  Dr,  Ramsay,  the  distinguished 
scholar  and  historian,  delivered  an  address.  The  cele 
bration  in  1785  was  the  second  which  was  observed  in 
Charleston.  The  address  of  Dr.  Ladd  on  this  occa 
sion,  a  part  of  which  has  been  preserved  by  Niles  in  his 
"Principles  and  Acts  of  the  Revolution,"  was  never 
written  out  in  full.  He  received  the  appointment  but  a 
few  days  previous  to  the  celebration,  during  the  sickly 
season,  while  employed  day  and  night  in  his  profes 
sional  duties ;  and  could  only  arrange  his  thoughts  ou 
horseback,  or  pencil  hasty  notes  while  stopping  at  the 
houses  of  his  patients.  His  address  therefore  is  to  be 
regarded  as  an  extemporaneous  effort ;  and  the  extract 
given  from  it  in  this  volume,  as  the  sketch  of  a  reporter. 
It  was  during  this  year,  also,  that  he  delivered  a  course 
of  public  lectures  on  chemistry  in  Charleston,  a  syllabus 
of  which  was  published  in  one  of  the  newspapers  of 
that  city. 

. :  Of  the  particular  incidents  of  his  life,  while  a  resident 
of  Charleston,  we  have  no  knowledge ;  and  a  sketch 
of  his  character  farther  than  is  indicated  by  the  forego 
ing  memoir,  unless  drawn  from  an  intimate  personal  ac 
quaintance,  would,  of  course,  be  a  mere  fancy-piece. 


AUTHOR'S  LIFE.  xxiii 

Of  his  standing  and  prospects,  however,  which  were 
doubtless  the  result  of  a  due  estimation  of  his  worth, 
we  are  enabled  to  speak  from  authority  and  with  confi 
dence.  Admired,  esteemed,  and  beloved  by  a  numerous 
circle  in  the  highest  ranks  of  society,  and  at  the  same 
time  popular  with  the  humbler  class  for  his  active  be 
nevolence  ;  toiling  incessantly  at  his  profession,  yet 
neglecting  no  opportunity  to  inform  himself  on  subjects 
of  interest  to.  the  scholar,  philosopher,  or  politician ;  in 
teresting  himself  in  the  important  public  questions  of 
the  day,  particularly  such  as  regarded  the  rising  institu 
tions  of  the  commonwealth  of  which  he  had  become  a 
citizen ;  with  a  good  constitution,  temperate  habits,  and 
talents  of  the  highest  order,  no  young  man  perhaps 
ever  had  a  fairer  prospect  of  rising  to  eminence,  useful- 
fulness,  and  high  political  distinction,  than  Dr.  Ladd,  at 

the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking. 

•. 
A.  situation  so  enviable  did  not  fail  to  excite  envy. 

To  be  obnoxious  to  its  baleful  eye,  is  the  "  hard  condi 
tion  twin-born  with  greatness."  Though  entirely 
amiable  in  his  disposition,  and  courteous  in  his  manners, 
no  man  possessed  a  more  high-toned  sensibility,  or  more 
chivalrous  spirit.  It  was  not  difficult,  therefore,  for  one 


XXW  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LIFE. 

bent  on  his  destruction,  to  draw  him  into  a  quarrel.  In 
November,  1786,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he  under 
went  a  challenge  for  some  frivolous  cause;  and,  though 
averse  to  dueling  from  principle,  yet  the  tyranny  of 
public  sentiment  was  such,  that  to  decline  the  rencounter 
would  have  made  him  the  mark  of  public  scorn,  and 
wholly  destroyed  his  standing  and  influence  in  society. 
His  conduct  on  the  field  was  firm ;  but  acting  without 
enmity  in  his  heart,  and  with  no  other  motive  but  the 
preservation  of  his  character,  he  purposely  fired  wide 
of  his  mark.  Not  so  his  antagonist.  His  purpose  was 
murderous,  his  aim  careful— and  Ladd  became  his 

victim. 

"  Multis  ille  boms  flebilis  occidit." 


v 
V  'WZJ 

•\ .   ii^-'&v.  ' 


POEMS. 


ODE    TO    THE    SPIRIT    OF    GSSIAN. 

BARD  of  the  melancholy  brow, 

0  whither  dost  thou  wander  now  ? 

1  hear  not,  when  the  storm  is  past, 
Thy  voice  upon  the  hollow  blast ; 
Nor  dost  thou  sweep  with  dying  fall, 
The  trembling  harp  of  Lara's  hall. 

Say,  dost  thou  stalk  with  pleasure  still, 
O'er  scenes  of  death,  on  Lara's  hill  ? 
Where  dark-browed  Fereuth — man  of  blood 
Connal,  and  mighty  Fingal  stood  ? 
Where  Oscar  shook  the  bloody  spear, 
When  Ossian,  king  of  songs,  was  there  ? 
2 


. 


14 

No,  lawful  spirit !  thou  dost  fly, 
Like  a  dim  meteor,  through  the  sky  :- 
A  thin  gray  mist  thy  glory  shrouds, 
While  thou  art  on  thy  sunny  clouds. 
There,  Fingal  and  thy  son  appears, 
With  all  the  chiefs  of  other  years. 


Late  to  my  slumbers  didst  thou  come ; — 
The  songs  of  bards  were  in  the  room ; — 
Thy  voice  was  on  the  passing  storm ; 
The  moon-beam  trembled  through  thy  form  j 
And  thou  didst  strike,  with  wonted  fire, 
The  wild,  the  sorrow-sounding  lyre. 

Hark !  'tis  not  wind  that  idly  sings 
Across  yon  harp,  and  sweeps  the  strings. 
'Tis  Ossian's  self  inspires  the  blast, 
With  living  songs  from  ages  past  I 
Those  ages  past  awake  his  soul : 
,^    And  all  their  deeds  before  him  roll. 

Bard  of  the  mournful  brow  !  again 
Repeat  thy  spirit-stirring  strain. 
For  see,  Malvina  comes  along, 
To  hear  the  sweet,  melodious  song1. 
Oh  !  wake  our  terror,  and  our  tears, 
With  tales  of  ages  past,  and  deeds  of  other  years 


15 


RUNIC   ODE. 

t 

RADIANT  orb,  revolving  round, 
Where,  oh !  whither  art  thou  bound  7 
Thou,  that  like  some  shining  shield, 
Blazing  o'er  the  bloody  field, 
Dost  on  1  igh  majestic  move, 
Pouring  sun-shiue  all  above. 

Where,  oh  !  whither  art  thou  bound, 
Rolling  now  in  glory  round? 
Red  and  fiery  round  thy  brow, 
Lo  !  the  western  waters  glow ; 
And  behind,  across  the  vales, 
Every  lengthening  shadow  trails. 

Where,  oh !  whither  art  thou  bound, 
Deep  in  distant  surges  drowned? 
Evening  marches,  wrapt  in  clouds, 
And  each  prospect  gaily  shrouds ; 
While  on  yonder  sea-beat  shores, 
Blacker  night  in  silence  pours.       .,   . 

Hark !  hear  the  rushing  blast — 
What  shrieks  it  mutters  round ! 


16 

.  ' 

It  bellows  o'er  the  dreary  waste, 
And  death  is  in  the  sound. 

See,  see  what  horrid  forms,  * 

Like  thin  gray  mists  appear ! 
They  ride  at  midnight  on  the  storms, 

With  horror  in  the  rear. 

Hark  I  hear  the  feeble  shriek, 

How  shrill  the  echoes  rise  1 
Ye  grim-gray  spirits  speak,  oh !  speak — • 

Why— why  those  dying  cries? 

What— do  ye  vanish  so? 

Are  ye  already  gone? 
Where,  grim-gray  shadows,  do  ye  go, 

To  pour  the  plaintive  moan  ? 

Hushed  are  the  winds — in  their  dark  silent  house, 
The  stormy  breezes  sleep — save  one  soft  gale, 
That  whistles  through  the  grassland  seems  to  say, 

Hence,  bard  of  sorrow — plaintive  poet,  hence ! 

' .  • . 

I  go,  sweet  gale !— on  yon  lone  echoing  shores, 
Where,  midst  the  foam,  sharp-pointed  rocks  emerge, 
To  hear  the  stormy  cataract,  that  roars 
Tremendous !  answered  by  the  bellowing  surge. 


17 

And  while  around  the  foamy  billows  sweep, 
The  briny  wave  sheds  momentary  gleams, 
By  whi<;h,  the  spirits  of  the  awful  deep 
Shall  court  my  vision  with  horrific  screams. 

Stay,  bard !  a  moment  stay ; 
For  see,  the  morning  ray 

Breaks  from  the  eastern  sky. 
Where  has  the  morning  been 
Thus  wandering,  long  unseen, 

In  dim  obscurity  ? 

Where,  oh  !  whither  didst  thou  stray, 
Radiant  orb,  that  givest  the  day? 
Long  did  we  thy  absence  mourn ; 
Long  we've  waited  thy  return  ; 
Say,  refulgent  planet,  say, 
Where,  oh !  whither  didst  thou  stray  1 


18 


ODE  TO  RETIREMENT. 

HAIL,  sweet  retirement !  hail ! 
Best  state  of  man  below; 

To  smooth  the  tide  of  passions  frail, 

And  bear  the  soul  away  from  scenery  of  wo. 
When  retired  from  busy  noise, 
Vexing  cares,  and  troubled  joys, 
ToVmild  serener  air 
In  the* country,  we  repair; 
Calm  enjoy  the  rural  scene, 
Sportive^>'er  the  meadows  green, 
When  the»sun's  enlivening  ray, 
Speaks  the  .genial  month  of  May; 
Lo !  his  amorous  wanton  beams, 
Dance  on  yonder  crystal  streams ; 
In  soft  dalliance  pass  the  hours, 
Kissing  dew-drops  from  the  flowers ; 
While  soft  music  through  the  grove, 
Sweetly  tunes  the  soul  to  love ; 
And  the  hills,  harmonious  round, 
Echo  with  responsive  sound. 
There  the  turtle  dove  alone. 
Makes  his  soft  melodious  moan ; 


// 


19 

While  from  yonder  bough  'tis  heard, 
Sweetly  chirps  the  yellow  bird : 
There  the  linnet1  s  downy  throat, 
Warbles  the  responsive  note  j 
And  to  all  the  neighboring  groves, 
Robin  redbreast  tells  his  loves. 

There,  AMANDA,  we  might  walk, 
And  of  soft  endearments  talk ; 
Or,  anon,  we'd  listen,  love, 
To  the  gently  cooing  dove. 
In  some  sweet  embowering  shade, 
Some  fair  seat  by  nature  made, 
I  my  love  would  gently  place, 
On  the  tender-woven  grass ; 
Seated  by  thy  lovely  side, 
Oh !  how  great  would  be  my  pride ; 
While  my  soul  should  fix  on  thine — 
Oh !  the  joy  to  call  thee  mine. 

For  why  should  doves  have  more  delight, 
Than  we,  my  sweet  AMANDA,  might  ? 
And  why  should  larks  and  linnets  be 
More  happy,  lovely  maid,  than  we? 

There  the  pride  of  genius  blooms, 
There  sweet  contemplation  comes ; 
There  is  science  heavenly  fair ; 
Sweet  philosophy  is  there. 


• 


*          .  >     V 

20 

With  each  author  valued  most, 

Ancient  glory,  modern  boast : 

There  the  mind  may  revel  o'er 

Doughty  deeds  of  days  of  yore ; 

How  the  mighty  warriors  stood — 

How  the  field  was  dyed  in  blood — 

How  the  shores  were  heaped  with  dead — 

And  the  rivers  streamed  with  red — 

While  the  heroes'  souls  on  flame, 

Urged  them  on  to  deathless  fame  : 

Or  we  view  a  different  age, 

Pictured  in  the  historic  page  ; 

Kings  descending  from  a  throne — 

Tyrants  making  kingdoms  groan — 

With  each  care  on  state  allied, 

With  all  the  scenery  of  pride : 

Or  perhaps  we'll  study  o'er 

Books  of  philosophic  lore  ; 

Read  what  Socrates  has  thought, 

And  how  god-like  Plato  wrote ; 

View  the  earth  with  Bacon's  eyes, 

Or  with  Newton  read  the  skies ; 

See  each  planetary  ball,  i 

One  great  sun  attracting  all ; 

All  by  gravitation  held, 

Self-attracted,  self-repelled : 


21 

We  shall  cheat  away  old  time, 
Passing  moments  so  sublime. 
Hail,  sweet  retirement  1  hail ! 

Best  state  of  man  below ; 
To  smooth  the  tide  of  passions  frail, 

And  bear  the  soul  away  from  scenery  of  wo. 


THE  PATRIOT'S  WISH. 

How  sweet  the  prospect  to  the  generous  mind, 
Whose  views  can  grasp  the  love  of  all  mankind, 
To  see,  beneath  these  glorious  western  skies, 
A  noble  empire  thus  to  freedom  rise. 
Whatever  motives  can  impel  the  heart 
To  act  a  decent  or  distinguished  part, 
Here  have  their  sway,  and  oiler  lasting  fame 
To  grace  and  honor  every  patriot's  name. 
Think  how,  in  ages  that  are  hastening  on, 
The  deeds  of  such  shall  reach  from  son  to  son, 
And  as  America  shall  greatly  soar 
Above  the  nations  that  have  gone  before, 
Her  noon-day  splendor,  with  illustrious  rays, 
Their  names  shall  cover  and  assert  their  praise : 


22 

The  faithful  poet  and  historian  true, 
With  wreaths  of  triumph,  all  their  way  pursue ; 
And  when  their  ashes  rest  within  the  grave, 
From  dumb  oblivion  shall  their  memory  save. 
Oh,  Washington !  thy  name  revered  shall  be, 
As  long  as  man  shall  glory  to  be  free. 
On  every  pillar  of  each  rising  state, 
That  name  ingrafted  shall  partake  its  fate ; 
And  still,  more  splendid,  as  by  time  more  old, 
The  hand  that  once  protected  shall  uphold  ; 
Since  such  the  meed  is  of  eternal  praise, 
That  must  attend  the  honest  statesman's  days. 
Oh !  that  one  spark  could  animate  the  whole, 
With  councils  steady  as  the  good  man's  soul ; 
That  faction  dire  would  quit  this  sylvan  shore, 
And  cease  the  buds  of  greatness  to  devour ; 
That  how  to  serve  his  country's  interest  best 
Should  be  the  sole  ambition  of  each  breast ; 
And  each  man's  study  were  to  aid  with  zeal, 
And  guard  with  vigilance,  the  public  weal. 
Then  should  the  dawn  that  now  begins  to  appear, 
With  double  blessing  every  bosom  cheer ; 
Then  our  sweet  pastures,  and  our  fertile  plains 
Repay  with  wealth  the  toil  of  cheerful  swains ; 
Trade  should  revive,  the  plough  protected  speed, 
The  arts  should  flourish,  and  the  state  succeed ; 


.   23 

Learning  should  then  her  drooping  genius  raise, 
And  churches  crowded  yield  united  praise 
To  Him,  whose  arm  has  made  our  nation  free, 
And  bids  his  blessings  with  our  prayers  agree. 


. .. 
• 


THE   PROSPECTS   OP   AMERICA, 


[Of  the  first  150  lines  of  this  poem,  only  two  detached 
fragments  are  to  be  found.  These  are  first  inserted ;  after 
which,  the  remaining  part  is  given  entire.] — ED. 


HANCOCK  !  thy  name  the  ambitious  muse  inspires, 
With  heaven-born  strains  and  with  immortal  fires. 
First  in  the  senate,  flowing,  clear,  and  strong, 
Thy  elocution  waked  the  admiring  throng : 
The  nervous  strains  a  generous  rage  conveyed, 
And  swift  was  bared  each  patriotic  blade. 
How  rose  the  patriots  resolute  and  bold, 
How  shook  the  senate,  when  thy  periods  rolled ! 
Thick  on  the  field  they  stood  in  dire  display, 
Whilst  tliou,  great  chieftain !  led'st  the  glorious  way* 

At  once  from  business  and  from  fame  retired, 
Thou  leavest  the  world — forever  still  admired  j 


; 


24 

Content  at  home  to  hear  the  crowds  declare, 
Which  pass  thy  door,"  the  first  of  men  lives  there." 


With  thee,  an  early  candidate  for  fame, 
Thy  firm  colleague  asserts  the  rightful  claim ; 
Dear  to  remembrance  when  all  time  is  past, 
The  name  of  ADAMS  shall  forever  last. 


She  saw  thee,  chief,  in  all  thy  greatness  shine, 
And  doomed  the  honors  of  the  patriot  thine ; 
Int wined  the  wreath  of  glory  for  thy  brow, 
And  bade  for  thee  succeeding  laurels  grow; 
That  while  the  bards  shall  of  thy  country  tell, 
Who  greatly  conquered,  and  who  bravely  fell, 
They  sing,  distinguished,  from  the  train  approved,      j  ' 
RUTLEDGE  the  great,  the  honored,  and  beloved. 

Long  live  the  man  in  early  contest  found, 
Who  spoke  his  heart,  when  dastards  trembled  round ; 
Who,  fired  with  more  than  Greek  or  Roman  rage, 
Flashed  truth  on  tyrants  from  his  manly  page- 
Immortal  PAYNE  !  whose  pen,  surprised  we  saw, 
Could  fashion  empires  while  it  kindled  awe. 


25 

When  first  with  awful  power  to  crush  the  foes, 
All  bright  in  glittering  arms  Columbia  rose, 
From  thee  our  sons  the  generous  mandate  took, 
As  if  from  heaven  some  oracle  had  spoke : 
And  when  thy  pen  revealed  the  grand  design, 
'Twas  DONE,  Columbia's  liberty  was  thine. 

Great  WASHINGTON  !  thy  sounding  fame  inspires 
The  heaven-rapt  bard  with  more  than  human  fires: 
Come,  like  THYSELF,  with  all  the  dazzKng  rays 
Of  glory  crowned,  thou  fairest  child  of  praise : 
Oh,  come !  as  when  victorious  on  the  plain, 

. 

The  vanquished  legions  trembled  in  thy  train  ; 
When  thro'  the  earth  thy  brightening  splendor  shone, 
And  glad  Columbia  hailed  her  conquering  son. 

Britannia  first,  in  swarmy  numbers  proud, 
Frowned  on  the  hill-tops,  like  a  blackened  cloud : 
Then  we  beheld  thee,  glorious  chief ! — thy  arm 
Swept  the  thick  ranks  and  shook  the  battle  storm ; 
While  thy  firm  squadrons  through  the  curling  gloom 
In  steady  thunders  poured  Britannia's  doom. 
As  when  o'er  guilty  heads  Jehovah  forms 
Black  sheets  of  vengeance,  and  impending  storms ; 
The  power  of  heaven  his  whole  creation  shrouds, 
In  sable  horror,  and  a  night  of  clouds  ; 
Lo !  swift  as  thought  the  angry  flashes  fly, 
Red  flames  and  darkness  rolling  in  the  sky  : 
3 


Above,  from  pole  to  pole,  with  deepened  sound 
The  .thunders  peal — loud,  awful,  and  profound  j 
Vice  and  her  favorites  tremble  at  the  sign, 
And  guilty  wretches  fly  the  wrath  divine. 
So  where  thy  arm  the  storm  of  battle  spread, 
Scattered  and  pale  the  adverse  legions  fled ; 
But  not  escaped— for  numbering  with  the  slain, 
Their  mighty  warriors  prest  the  sanguine  plain ; 
Ill-fated  youths  !  destined  to  view  no  more 
The  brightening  prospect  of  fair  Albion's  shore; 
No  more  from  righting  fields  the  warriors  come, 
For  fate  denies  to  view  their  natal  home. 

As  broad  black  billows,  boiling  from  the  deep, 
Burst  in  destruction  o'er  the  shattered  ship, 
When  roaring  North  the  foaming  surge  deforms, 
And  calls  dread  ruin  from  a  hundred  storms ;       , 
So  black,  so  dreadful,  o'er  the  astonished  foes 
Burst  floods  of  vengeance  when  thy  wrath  arose. 

To  thee,  great  chieftain,  now  far  lovelier  pourr 
The  soft  smooth  sound,  where  no  rough  torrent  roare. 
From  scenes  of  slaughter,  where  the  echoing  heath 
Is  shook  with  battle,  and  is  filled  with  death ; 
From  shouting  bands  tumultuous  in  applause ; 
From  wondering  states,  ambitious  of  thy  laws, 
Thou  turnest:  what  chief  could  (oh  Columbia  1)  shine 
With  all  the  heaven-born  dignity  of  thine  ? 


27 

Once  more  to  thy  fair  seats  we  view  thee  come, 
While  each  pleased  neighbor  gratulates  thee  home : 
On  grass-green  Vernon  lovelier  beams  the  morn, 
And  glad  Potomac  murmurs  thy  return. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  CHIEF  !  amidst  thy  sweet  retreat, 
Mayst  thou  live  happy,  as  thou'rt  good  and  great : 
While  yet  thou  viewest,  with  transport  in  thy  eyes, 
Thy  darling  land,  in  full-orbed  glory  rise  ; 
While  no  dark  tyrant  o'er  Columbia  frowns, 
But  glorious  freedom  every  blessing  crowns, 
While  raptured  states  in  gratitude  bestow 
Their  thanks  for  blessings,  which  to  thee  they  owe. 

No  more  thy  bands  their  WASHINGTON  implore  ; 
Thy  rescued  country  calls  to  arms  no  more ; 
But  smiling  heaven  has  lulled  thy  cares  to  rest, 
And  calmed  with  lenient  hand  thy  troubled  breast : 
Midst  sweet  retirement,  bids  thy  labors  cease, 
And  gilds  the  evening  of  thy  day  with  peace. 
In  halcyon  flow,  and  smooth  as  summer  seas, 
Thy  hours  shall  pass  in  philosophic  ease, 
Till  time  shall  gently  beck  tnee  from  the  stage, 
In  the  mild  mellow  of  a  ripe  old  age ; 
And  many  an  eye  shall  start  the  gushing  tear, 
While  thy  loved  country  holds  thy  memory  dear. 


28 

; 

Nor  shall  thou  mourn  in  Alexandrian  lays,* 
Thou  hadst  no  Homer  to  record  thy  praise : 
For  many  a  hard  of  ages  yet  unborn, 
Shall,  with  thy  name,  the  tuneful  lays  adorn ; 
In  lasting  archives  shall  thy  glories  rest, 
Engraved  forever  in  each  grateful  breast; 
In  every  heart  thy  monument  be  known, 
With  this  inscription— "  HERE  is  WASHINGTON." 
To  thee,  oh  GREENE  !  each  muse  her  tribute  pays, 
Great  Chieftain  I  crowned  with  never-fading  bays : 
Thy  worth,  thy  country,  ever  grateful,  owns, 
Her  first  of  warriors,  and  her  best  of  sons. 

Hail,  PUTNAM  !t  hail,  thou  venerable  name ! 
Though  dark  oblivion  threats  thy  mighty  fame, 
In  vain  it  threats — for  long  shall  thou  be  known, 
Who  first  in  virtue  and  in  battle  shone, 
When  four-score  years  had  blanched  thy  laureled  head, 
Strong  in  thine  age,  the  flame  of  wrath  was  spread. 


*  It  is  a  well  known  lamentation  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  that  he  was  destitute  of  a  Homer  to  celebrate  his 
actions. 

f  The  brave  Putnam  seems  to  have  been  almost  obscured 
amidst  the  glare  of  succeeding  worthies  ;  but  his  early  and 
important  services  entitle  him  to  an  everlasting  remem 
brance. 


29 

Behold  what  names  Fame's  swelling  list  adorn  I 
Great,  glorious  names,  for  age  eternal  born. 
There  GATES,  there  WAYNE,  there  LINCOLN  stand 

enrolled, 

And  FLEURY  glitters  there  in  lettered  gold. 
To  these  Columbia,  at  the  latest  day, 
The  debt  of  heart-felt  gratitude  shall  pay :     • 
They  once  in  hours  of  gloomy  danger  rose, 
Towered  on  her  fields,  and  crushed  her  stubborn  foes : 
Now  to  their  country  ends  their  great  design, 
In  heaven-born  peace  and  liberty  divine. 

What  forms*  are  they,  which  flit  along  the  glades 
Witti  silent  sweep  ?  What  visionary  shades  ? 
Ah !  see  them  move,  the  brave,  the  bleeding  train 
Of  glorious  men,  in  fields  of  battle  slain. 
There  was  thy  wound,  Columbia — still  to  thee, 
In  memory,  dear  thy  martyred  sons  shall  be ; 
Their  names,  their  fates,  remotest  ages  hear, 
While  virtue  sheds  the  sympathizing  tear. 
See  yonder  ghost,  whose  pallid  face  outvies 
The  white  moon  glimmering  in  the  eastern  skiea: 
His  shadowy  arms !  his  mantle  like  the  snows  i 
His  wounded  breast,  whence  seeming  crimson  flows  ! 


*  The  poet  beholds  passing  before  him,  the  ghosts  of  those 
brave  men  who  fell  in  the  American  contest. 

3* 


30 

He  was  the  first  who  gained  the  martyr's  fame : 
Say,  who  has  heard  not  mighty  WARREN'S  name  ? 
There  flits  great  ME  RC  E  R'S  shade,  and  here  is  known 
The  much  loved  YE  ATES — fair  freedom's  genuine  son. 

But  who  emerges  from  yon  gloomy  cloud, 
With  bleeding  bosom  crimsoning  his  shroud  ? 
'Tis  he !  In  all  the  pomp  of  death  displayed, 
MONTGOMERY  comes !  Behold  the  mighty  shade. 
Greater  than  life,  while  never  to  divide, 
Lo !  WOLFE,  immortal  WOLFE,  attends  his  side. 
M'PUERSON  too !  and  (who  can  tears  refrain?) 
See !  gentle  CHEESEMAN  glides  along  the  plain. 

Hail !  warrior  shades !  whose  awful  tombs  are  found 
On  Abram's  Plain}  that  consecrated  ground. 
Hail !  ye  great  chieftains !  who,  amidst  the  roar 
Of  thundering  cannon,  laved  the  field  in  gore : 
Still  shall  your  memory  wake  the  tender  teaiy 
Dear  to  your  country,  to  whole  nations  dear : 
Columbia's  bard,  smit  with  the  heaven-born  flame, 
To  latest  times  perpetuates  your  name ; 
While  heaven's  first  angel  bids  your  glories  rise, 
And  prints  them  deathless  in  your  native  skies. 

But  ye,  great  worthies,  genuine  sons  of  praise, 
Whose  patriot  virtues  claim  immortal  lays ; 
Blame  not  the  poet,  if  his  much-loved  song 
Bears  not  the  glory  of  your  deeds  along; 


31 

For  should  he  strive  to  sound  each  mighty  name, 
With  which  his  country  swells  the  list  of  fame, 
Midst  the  vast  labor  of  the  arduous  tale, 
His  time,  his  numbers,  and  his  verse  would  fail. 

Columbia,  hail !  fair  rising  to  the  eyes, 
Midst  the  warm  sun-shine  of  the  western  skies : 
Thy  fruitful  coasts,  with  rich  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  blue  ocean  rolls  his  waves  around : 
Thy  vales,  which  summer  spreads  his  fragrance  o'er, 
While  the  soft  zephyrs  waft  it  from  the  shore :     * 
Thy  verdant  hills,  afar  by  strangers  seen, 
Thy  spreading  glades,  thy  fields  forever  green  ; 
Thy  rising  cities,  lengthening  round  the  coast. 
And  those  deep  forests,  where  the  eye  is  lost 
With  beauteous  grandeur  mingling  in  the  sight ; 
All  these  conspire  to  give  the  soul  delight. 

To  thy  warm  plains,  the  northern  subject  flies 
From  the  cold  pinching  of  inclement  skies ; 
While  India's  children,  from  her  sun-burnt  glades, 
Seek  cool  retirement  in  thy  happier  shades. 
The  man  of  wealth,  whose  gathered  stores  exceed 
The  happy  sums  ten  thousand  wretches  need, 
Surveys  the  prospect,  beauteous  all  and  fair, 
And  leaves  his  native  for  Columbia's  air ; 
While  the  poor  wretch,  by  pallid  hunger  nurst, 
Worn  down  by  labor,  and  by  taxes  curst, 


32 

From  lands  where  famine  or  a  tyrant  reigns, 
Comes,  and  is  happy  on  thy  lovelier  plains. 

See  thy  blest  sons  in  every  shape  renowned, 
Some  tend  the  flocks,  while  others  till  the  ground ; 
Some  shear  the  sheep,  and  fleece  on  fleece  they  spread, 
From  whence  the  matron  spins  the  lengthening  thread; 
While  the  lone  laborer  through  the  forest  hies, 
And  sells  those  woods  which  soon  in  fleets  must  rise. 

Nor  in  rude  arts  thy  sons  excel  alone, 
Are  they  not  great  in  paths  of  science  known  ? 
Dp  they  not  tread  that  spot  the  muses  love, 
Through  flowery  mazes  of  the  laurel  grove  ? 

Yes,  fair  Columbia,  rushing  into  day, 
See  where  thy  FRANKLIN  points  the  glorious  way ; 
Like  NEWTON  skilled,  dark  error  to  control, 
And  pour  bright  knowledge  on  the  enraptured  soul. 
See  where  the  sage  all  venerable  stands, 
The  electric  tube  red  glimmering  in  his  hands. 

Go,  mighty  genius,  where  thy  judgment  spreads 
The  road  to  glory — where  fair  science  leads. 
From  yon  black  clouds,  that  low  with  tempests  bend, 
Compel  the  angry  thunder  to  descend ; 
And  as  the  lightning  flashes  swift  on  high, 
Oh !  seize  it  glimmering  from  the  darkened  sky : 
Then,  like  thyself,  with  flame  enveloped  o'er, 
While  round  thy  brow  thy  thunders  harmless  roar, 


33 

Rise  greater  still — from  tyrants  snatch  the  rod, 
And  be  the  second  only  to  thy  God. 

Thou  hast — for  lo !  whence  swelling  oceans  foam, 
Fair  to  the  view,  commutual  treaties  come. 
Thy  wisdom  joined  the  widely  differing  powers, 
And  made  sweet  peace  and  independence  ours. 

Through  the  calm  breast  what  loved  ideas  roll, 
What  flowing  periods  elevate  the  soul, 
When  the  greo.i  farmer*  generous,  clear,  and  strong, 
Bears  the  raised  mind  by  magic  power  along. 
Well  known  that  pen,  in  smooth  persuasion  skilled 
Which  none  but  freedom's  DICKENSON  can  wield. 

Behold  great  WiNTHROP,  studious  to  explore 
The  mystic  page  of  philosophic  lore ; 
Nor  studious  less  to  view  that  tome  refined, 
Which  heaven  indulgent  opens  to  the  mind. 
There  WILLIAMSON  pursues  the  mazy  road, 
And  points,  through  nature's  works,  to  nature's  God.^ 


*  J.  Dickenson,  Esq.  the  celebrated  author  of  the  Far 
mer's  Letters. 

f  This  is  the  true  end  of  philosophy;  here  all  her  re 
searches  terminate.  What  can  be  more  beautiful,  and  a 
the  same  time  more  just,  than  the  following  passage  fron 
the  immortal  Fenelon : 

"  He  discoursed  with  Mentor  of  the  first  cause,  whicl 
formed  the  heavens  and  the  earth ;  of  that  infinite  un 


34 

There  too  great  OLIVER  bis  page  refines, 
And  vindicates  the  omnipotent  designs ; 
Shows  the  red  comet  which  through  ether  flames, 
The  sovereign  wisdom  of  its  God  proclaims. 

Here  our  loved  poets  tune  the  immortal  lays, 
While  praise  inspires,  for  much  they  merit  praise. 
Hark  !  FRENEAU'S  voice  attunes  the  solemn  air, 
He  sings  to  freedom,  and  he  sings  of  war; 


changeable  light,  which  is  communicated  to  all  without 
being  divided ;  of  that  sovereign  universal  truth,  which 
illuminates  all  spirits,  as  the  sun  illuminates  all  bodies. 
The  man,  added  lie,  who  has  never  seen  this  pure  light,  is 
as  blind  as  one  who  is  born  blind ;  he  passes  his  life  in  pro 
found  darkness,  like  the  nations  which  the  sun  enlightens  not 
for  many  months  in  the  year.  He  thinks  himself  wise,  and 
is  a  fool ;  he  thinks  he  sees  all  things,  and  sees  nothing,  and 
dies  without  having  seen  any  thing:  at  most,  he  perceives 
but  glimmering  and  false  lights,  vain  shadows,  and  phan 
toms  that  have  nothing  of  reality.  Such  is  the  condition 
of  all  who  are  carried  away  by  the  pleasures  of  sense,  and 
the  allurements  of  imagination.  There  are  in  the  world  no 
men  really  rational,  except  those  who  consult,  who  love, 
who  obey  this  eternal  reason.  It  is  that  which  inspires  us 
with  good  thoughts  ;  it  is  that  which  reproves  us  for  our  ill 
ones.  We  are  indebted  to  it  for  our  understanding,  as  well 
as  for  our  lives ;  it  is  like  a  great  ocean  of  light ;  our  souls 
are  like  rivulets  which  flow  from  it,  and  return  into,  and 
are  lost  in  it  again."  How  few  are  the  philosophers  of  the 
present  age  who  realize  such  noble  sentiments. 


35 

With  noble  warmth  shows  man  created  free, 
"  When  GOD,  from  chaos,  gave  this  world  to  be." 

What  plaintive  song,  what  melancholy  tale, 
Rides  on  the  breeze  and  spreads  upon  the  vale  ? 
'Tis  BARLOW'S*  strain,  which  solemn  pours  along, 
For  HOSMER'S  dead,  and  saddened  is  the  song. 

Here  the  fair  volume  shows  the  far-spread  name 
Of  wondrous  WHEATLY,!  Afritfs  heir  to  fame. 
Well  is  it.  known  what  glowing  genius  shines, 
What  force  of  numbers,  in  her  polished  lines : 
With  magic  power  the  grand  descriptions  roll 
t  Thick  on  the  mind,  and  agitate  the  soult 


*  Mr.  Joel  Barlow,  of  Connecticut.  At  the  time  when 
this  was  written,  the  author  had  only  seen  his  Elegy  on 
Judge  Hosmer,  which  contains  much  sublimity. 

f  Phillis  Wheatly,  a  negress,  and  the  authoress  of  some 
ingenious  poems,  which  seem  to  be  entitled  to  a  remem 
brance  here,  although  not  written  by  a  native  of  America. 

|  We  need  only  peruse  the  following  lines,  extracted  from 
hex  poems,  to  be  convinced  of  this : 
"  When  Homer  paints,  lo !  circumfused  in  air, 
Celestial  gods  in  mortal  forms  appear : 
Swift  as  they  move,  hear  each  recess  rebound, 
Earth  quakes,  heaven  thunders,  and  the  shores  resound. 
Great  sire  of  verse,  before  my  mortal  eyes 
The  lightnings  flash  along  the  gloomy  skies :    . 
And  as  the  thunder  shades  the  heavenly  plains, 
A  deep-felt  horror  creeps  through  all  my  veins." 


36 

Such  warmth  of  fancy  once  a  MAYLEM*  fired, 
Untaught  he  sung,  by  all  the  muse  inspired. 

Near  each  famed  city  o'er  the  wide  domain, 
Where  beauteous  nature  spreads  the  level  plain, 
Where  healthy  breezes  spin  the  lengthened  age, 
The  youthful  student  turns  the  classic  page ; 
From  noise  retired,  salubrious  airs  invite 
The  soul  to  knowledge — teeming  with  delight. 
On  such  fair  spots,  the  traveler  with  surprise 
Sees  many  a  college  in  bright  prospect  rise : 
There  the  learned  youth  the  willing  tribute  pays 
To  his  loved  ancients — "  bards  of  other  days ;" 
There,  taught  the  force  of  rolling  Greek  to  join, 
With  the  smooth  polished  Ciceronian  line, 
He  stands  for  fame,  and  add  a  rival  soon 

To  STILES,t  tO  VARNUM,t  Or  to  WlTIIERSPOON. 


*  John  Maylem  was  a  poet  of  genius,  who  lived  not  many 
years  since.  His  productions  bear  every  mark  of  a  deficient 
education ;  but  his  genius  rose  superior  to  every  inconve 
nience,  and  he  remains  a  shining  example  of  the  Iloratian 
maxim,  that  "  Poeta  nascitur  nonfit." 

t  The  Rev.  Ezra  Stiles,  D.  D.  and  President  of  Yale 
College,  in  Connecticut;  a  gentleman  of  distinguished 
abilities,  uniting  the  amiable  qualities  of  a  great  philosopher 
and  most  excellent  divine. 

t  James  M.  Varnum,  Esq.  an  eminent  attorney  in  the 
state  of  Rhode  Island. 


37 

Rich  in  the  knowledge  of  five  thousand  years, 
Lo !  lovely  fair  philosophy  appears, 
With  smiles  of  joy,  with  pleasure  in  her  eyes, 
Beholds  her  young  academy  arise ; 
Complacent  views  societies  that  join, 
In  wisdom's  sacred  cause,  and  science  all  divine, 

Here  kindly  nature  every  blessing  spreads 
O'er  the  brown  forests,  and  the  flowery  meads. 
See  yon  tall  pine  which  threatens  to  the  sky, 
,  And  must,  ere  long,  through  sea-green  surges  fly, 
Changed  to  a  mast,  (for  so  the  fates  decree,) 
On  some  proud  ship  it  rides  the  billowy  sea.          . 
There  towers  the  oak,  for  many  a  purpose  good, 
Midst  all  his  pride,  the  monarch  of  the  wood. 
Here  poplars  rise,  a  ad  ever  weeping  there 
In  constant  verdure,  the  balsamic  fir. 
Tall  maples  here  their  treasured  sweets  disclose, 
And  there  the  poet's  much-loved  laurel  grows ;      . 
With  many  a  tree  unknown  to  other  skies, 
And  many  a  forest  whence  their  navies  rise. 

Hence  swarming  merchants  o'er  the  briny  floods, 
In  hollow  ships  shall  bear  the  leafless  woods ; 
And  hence  to  distant  climes,  they  too  shall  bear 
The  well-spun  cordage,  and  th'  unequaled  tar. 

No  more  the  loom  of  fair  Hibernia  groans  .       : 
With  the  rich  linen  for  Columbia's  sons ; 
4 


38 

For  native  here,  it  emulates  the  snows, 
And  here  the  silk  with  native  purple  glows. 
As  the  wide  sea  her  refluent  billows  pours, 
Now  flows,  now  ebbs  upon  the  sounding  shores  ;* 
So  fair  Columbia's  wayward  merchants  roam 
To  every  port,  from  every  port  they  come ; 
And  wealthy  nations  pour  the  golden  tide, 
As  waves  on  waves  o'er  sea-green  oceans  ride ; 
While  nothing  enters,  but  for  use  designed, 
Lo !  every  export  leaves  its  wealth  behind. 
Midst  swarming  nations,  heaven-born  justice- reigns 
O'er  the  thronged  cities,  and  the  busy  plains ; 

*  These  lines,  and  some  of  the  following,  are  translated 
almost  literally  from  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray  : 

"  Ainsi  lee  peuple  y  accoururent  bientut  en  foule  de  toutes 
pans.  Le  commerce  de  cette  ville  ttoit  semblable  au  flux 
et  reflux  de  la  mer.  Les  trcsors  y  entroient  comme  les 
flots  viennent  Tun  sur  Pautre.  Tout  y  etoit  apporte  et  en 
sortoit  librement.  Tout  ce  qui  entroit  ttoit  utile ;  tout 
ce  qui  sortoit,  laissoit  en  sortant  d'autres  richesses  A 
sa  place.  La  justice  severe  presided  dans  le  port,  au  milieu 
de  taut  de  nations.  La  franchise,  la  bonnc-ibi,  la  candeur, 
sembloient  du  haut  de  ces  superbes  tours  appeller  les  mar- 
chands  des  terres  les  plus  eloignees :  chacun  de  ces  mar- 
chands,  soil  qu'il  vint  des  rives  orientales  oil  le  soleil  sort 
chaque  jour  du  sein  des  ondes,  suit  qu'il  fut  parti  de  cette 
grande  mer  ou  le  soleil,  lasse  de  son  cours,  va  eteindre  ses 
feux,  vivoit  paisible  et  en  surete  dans  Salentc  comme  dans 
sa  patrie."—  Ttltmaquc,  Liv.xii. 


39 

While  smiling  freedom,  whence  loud  surges  roar, 
Invites  fair  commerce  to  her  peaceful  shore. 

The  swarthy  merchant,  here  from  eastern  skies, 
Whence  from  the  deep  the  beams  of  morning  rise, 
Or  o'er  the  dark  blue  surge,  whence  PhoBbus  laves 
His  setting  glory  in  the  western  waves, 
Receives  delighted,  what  our  country  gives, 
Where  free,  where  happy,  as  at  home  he  lives. 


PROSPECT   OF   CAROLINA. 

• 

FOR  JULY. 

Lo !  wrapt  in  sun-shine  all  divinely  bright, 
Fair  Carolina  rises  to  the  sight : 
Here  the  hot  sun,  with  fierce  effulgent  ray, 
Darts  from  his  orb  intolerable  day. 
Unlike  the  northern  beam,  his  fervid  glow 
Pays  fiercer  courtship  to  the  streams  below ; 
Hence  from  each  stagnant  pool  thick  vapors  rise, 
Curl  to  the  clouds,  and  blacken  in  the  skies : 
On  such  dire  fogs,  death  rides  with  murky  wing, 
And  here  thy  woes,  oh  Carolina !  spring. 


40 

When  vertic  sun- beams  wrap  the  mountain-heads, 
And  the  red  dog-star's  cursed  venom  spreads ; 
Then  smoke  the  hill* ;  for  from  the  marshes  round, 
The  curling  fog  invades  the  higher  ground. 
Unblest  i^ie,  who,  in  this  luckless  hour, 
By  dread  e^erience  proves  its  deathful  power. 

But  what  rash  man,  celestial  muses  say, 
Bends  o'er  yon  mist-clad  marsh  his  dangerous  way  1 
Oh  stay,  fond  youth !  no  living  wight  can  bear 
The  deadly  influence  of  impoisoned  air : 
Stay,  while  thy  frame  the  rigid  fibres  brace, 
And  vermil  health  sports  lovely  in  thy  face : 
Stay,  ere  PHOBERA,*  through  thy  circling  veins, 
Spread  the  dire  prelude  to  more  fatal  pains : 
For  know,  youth,  o'er  yon  dreary  marshes  glide 
The  mists  envenomed,  MIASMATA!  ride. 
If  in  thy  veins  they  taint  the  generous  blood, 
Fair  health,  adieu !  and  every  earthly  good. 

Hence  comes  dire  TERTIAN,  Carolina's  bane, 
And  all  the  haggard  family  of  pain : 
The  van  pale  horror  leads,  and  anguish  blind ; 
Infernal  megrim  follows  close  behind. 

*  The  harbingers  of  disease,    f  The  seeds  of  disease. 


41 

Taste  not  the  air,  for  death  is  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  whole  hydra  of  abhorred  disease. 


CJBTEBA  DE8UNT. 


FAREWELL   TO   CAROLINA. 

CHARLESTON,  adieu !  delightful  land,  farewell ! 
Where  late  I  passed  the  joyous  smiling  hours ; 
Thy  charms,  the  bard  shall  ever  grateful  tell, 
And  sing  of  thee  upon  his  distant  shores : 
For  see  !  propitious  gales 
Extend  our  canvas  sails  ; 
And  while  the  vessel  leaves  her  wonted  strand, 
Behind  the  convex  ocean,  sinks  thy  happy  land. 

Yet  trust  the  bard,  he  will  return  again, 

When  blooming  March  re- welcomes  in  the  spring; 
When  flowers  and  verdure  smile  upon  the  plain 
From  tree  to  tree,  and  warbling  songsters  sing. 
And  while  the  vessel  braves 
The  darkly  azure  waves ; 
4* 


42 

And  while  the  whitening  surge  in  tempest  roars, 
He'll  ride  the  foaming  prow,  and  hail  again  thy  shores. 

Now,  jocund  winter  leads  along  the  year, 

And  in  the  train  enchanting  pleasure  comes ; 
Again  thy  sons  in  wonted  strength  appear; 
Again  with  health  each  roseate  visage  blooms  : 
And  now  the  social  powers 
Roll  on  the  happy  hours  ; 
Now,  Carolina,  every  joy  is  thine ; 

The  charms  of  social  life,  and  pleasures  all  divine. 

.  • 

Ah !.  when  the  plaintive  melancholy  bard,  ,   ., 

Bends  unresisting  to  the  fate's  decree ; 
In  banishment  from  hence,  his  sole  reward, 
Shall  be  in  prospect  to  revisit  thee. 
Then  gratitude's  sweet  song 
Shall  bear  thy  name  along : 
Then  will  he  tune  each  soft  harmonious  string, 
And  sing  thy  happy  plains,  thy  much  loved  children 


' 
; 


43 


THE  JOURNEY, 


OUR  destined  course  we  next  pursue, 
Till  Eutaw  Springs  appear  in  view ; 
Here  we  behold  the  bloody  field, 
Where  British  bands  were  forced  to  yield — 
The  fair  historic  page  shall  tell, 
That  here  full  many  a  Briton  fell. 
Our  horses  left,  around  we  stray, 
And  all  the  scene  of  death  survey : 
There  lay  a  heap  of  bleaching  bones, 
And  there  whole  human  skeletons  j 
In  every  prospect  did  appear, 
The  sad  effects  of  cursed  war. 

Here  first  my  foot  disturbed  with  impious  tread, 
The  sacred  relics  of  the  silent  dead ; 
From  a  large  grave,  with  skeletons  displayed, 
To  tear  the  peaceful  bones  I  next  essayed ; 
For  here  full  oft  th'  anatomist  may  find 
The  separate  frames,  which  may  with  skill  be  joined. 
First,  a  large  tibia  from  the  grave  I  tore ; 
Next,  an  os  femoris,  from  distance  bore ; 


The  different  bones  by  art  replaced  again, 
The  left  trochanter  still  I  sought  in  vain ; 
But  while  my  search  laborious  I  pursued, 
Through  the  recesses  of  the  spreading  wood, 
In  form  scarce  human,  with  terrific  brows, 
The  awful  genius  of  the  wood  arose : 
His  reverend  head  a  lofty  cedar  crowned ; 
A  zone  of  bushes  clasped  his  body  round. 
Onward  he  came,  all  ghastly  was  his  look ; 
The  tall  trees  trembled,  the  whole  forest  shook : 
At  length,  in  thunder  his  expressions  broke, 
A.nd  slowly  solemn  thus  the  phantom  spoke : 

Oh,  impious  stranger !  suffer  still  to  rest 
These  hallowed  bones — and  from  dispersion  save 

The  sleeping  patriot.    Say,  canst  thou  molest, 
Nor  let  the  soldier  slumber  in  his  grave  ? 

•  .  .- 

: 

What  pledge  hast  thou,  unthinking  stranger,  say  ? 

What  surety  hast  thou  when  grim  death  shall  come, 
That  none  will  tear  thy  peaceful  bones  away, 

Or  none  deny  thy  skeleton  a  tomb  ? 

•          :    .  ' 

.• 

The  bones  thou  seest  were  drest  with  heavenly  skill, 
Whilom,  as  thine,  with  nerves  and  vigor  too ; 


.  < 


. 


45 

Go  ask  of  Britain,  if  she  bears  not  still 
Their  dread  remembrance,  in  each  deathful  blow  ? 

Those  sleeping  warriors  taught  their  foes  to  yield, 
And  FAME'S  shrill  trumpet  left  no  name  behind ; 

But  loud  proclaimed,  through  the  bloody  field, 
Tbe  brothers,  friends,  and  fathers  of  mankind. 

Disturb  not  then  the  slumbers  of  the  brave ; 

At  least,  these  hallowed  bones  a  tomb  afford : 
For  who  deserves  an  honorable  grave, 

Lake  those  who  earned  it  by  the  bloody  sword  ? 

Depart  in  peace,  forbear  this  hallowed  shade ; 

But  think,  oh  stranger  !  as  thou  dost  depart, 
And  let  the  instruction  which  is  here  conveyed, 

With  deep  impression  sink  into  thy  heart. 

Here  ceased,  and  swift  as  lightning's  rapid  flight, 
The  horrid  phantom  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
Amazed  I  stood — by  terror  all  inspired — 
I  viewed,  I  trembled,  and  with  awe  retired. 


46 


REMONSTRANCE   OP   ALMASA, 

'...•'  - 

WIFE  OF  ALMAJ  ALI  OAWN,  TO  GENERAL  HASTINGS. 

'  •     '  .    • 

MY  subjects  slaughtered,  my  whole  kingdom  spoiled, 
My  treasures  rifled,  and  my  husband  slain — 
Oh  say,  vile  monster,  art  thou  satisfied  ? 
Hast  thou  (rapacious  brute !).  sufficient  wealth  ? 
And,  cruel  murderer,  art  thou  filled  with  blood  ? 
Perhaps  insatiate,  thou  art  thirsting  still 
For  human  gore !— oh,  mayst  thou  ever  thirst ; 
And  may  the  righteous  gods  deny  thee  water, 
To  cool  thy  boiling  blood.    Inhuman  wretch ! 
Have  not  the  bravest  of  my  subjects  bled  ? 
Are  they  not  butchered  ALL—ALL  massacred  ? 
And  did  not  India  foam  again  with  gore  ? 

Where  is  the  murderer  who  has  slain  his  fellow  ? 
Where  is  the  robber  ?    Where  the  parricide  ? 
Approach — for  ye  are  innocent  and  clean ; 
Your  souls  are  whiter  than  the  ocean  foam, 
Compared  with  him,  the  murderer  of  MILLIONS  ! 
Yes,  bloody  brute,  the  murderer  of  MILLIONS  ! 
Where  are  the  swarms  that  covered  all  my  land  ? 
That  cultured  land,  of  which  each  foot  was  garden, 


47 

Doomed  to  support  the  millions  of  my  host ; 
Are  they  not  butchered  all — all  massacred  ? 
And  butchered,  bloody  monster,  by  thy  hands  ? 
But  why  ? — because,  vile  brute,  thou  must  have  wealth. 
Because  thou  must  have  wealth,  my  people  bled ; 
.1  The  land  was  floated  with  a  tide  of  gore ! 
My  fields,  my  towns,  my  cities,  swam  in  blood ! 
And  through  all  India  one  horrendous  groan, 
The  groan  of  millions,  echoed  to  the  heavens. 

Curst  be  your  nation,  and  forever  curst 
The  luckless  hour,  when  India  first  beheld  you. 
We  have  a  custom  here,  as  old  as  time, 
Of  honoring  justice.    Why  ? — -because  'tis  justice ; 
And  virtue  is  beloved — because  'tis  virtue, 
As  Indians  need  no  hell,  they  know  of  none : 
You  Christians  say  you've  one ;  'tis  well  you  have — 
Your  crimes  call  loudly  for  it.    And  I'll  swear^       ' 
If  HASTINGS  is  not  damned,  your  boasted  gods 
Are  worse  than  he :  and  heaven  itself  becomes 
A  black  accomplice  in  the  monster's  guilt. 

HASTINGS  !  my  husband  was  your  prisoner :. 
The  wealth  of  kingdoms  flew  to  his  relief: 
You  took  the  ransom,  and  you  broke  your  faith : 
ALMAS  was  slain ! — 'twas  perjury  to  your  soul ; 
But  perjury  is  a  little  crime  to  you, 
In  souls  so  black  it  seems  almost  a  virtue. 


48 

Know,  monster,  know  that  the  prodigious  wealth 
You  sold  your  soul  for,  was  by  justice  gained : 
'Twos  not  acquired  by  rapine,  force,  and  murder ; 
The  treasures  of  my  fathers !  theirs  by  conquest, 
And  legal  domination :  from  old  time 
Transmitted  by  the  father  to  the  son, 
In  just  succession,    Now  you  call  it  yours, 
And  dearly  have  you  purchased  it-j-for  know, 
When  the  just  gods  shall  hear  the  cry  of  blood, 
And  of  your  hands  demand  the  souls  you've  murdered, 
That  gold  will  never  pay  their  price — will  never  pay 
Your  awful  ransom.    You  must  go  where  ALMAS 
Sits  on  a  lofty  throne,  and  every  hour 
He  stabs  an  Englishman,  and  sweetly  feasts 
Upon  his  bloody  heart,  and  trembling  liver : 
For,  monstrous  wretch,  to  thy  confusion  know, 
ALMAS  can  relish  now  no  other  food 
Than  "  hearts  of  Englishmen !"   Yet  thou  art  safe— - 
Yes,  monster !  thou  art  safe  from  this  repast : 
A  heart,  polluted  with  ten  thousand  crimes, 
Is  not  a  feast  for  ALMAS.     Tremble  yet ; 
He'll  tear  that  heart  out  from  its  bloody  case, 
And  toss  it  to  his  dogs :  full  many  a  vulture 
Be  poisoned  by  thy  corse :  wolves  shall  run  mad, 
By  feeding  on  thy  murderous  carcass :  Mare  ! 
When  some  vile  wretch,  some  monster  of  mankind, 


Some  brute,  like  thee,  perhaps  thy  relative, 
Laden  with  horrid  crimes  without  a  name, 
Shall  stalk  through  earth,  and  we  want  curses  for  him, 
We'll  torture  thought  to  curse  the  wretch ;  and  then, 
To  damn  him  most  supreme,  we'll  call 


1    A   NIGHT   PIECE   AT    SEA. 

PAINTER  !  describe  where  mingling  in  the  eye, 
Spread  the  blue  waters  and  impending  sky ; 
Where  boisterous  ocean  holds  his  rough  domain, 
And  wishful  sailors  look  for  land  in  vain : 
For  there,  ah !  there,  borne  by  the  troubled  tides, 
The  wave-tossed  bark  of  my  Leander  rides. 


Painter !  'tis  done — by  thy  strange  magic  powers, 

The  surge  is  liquid,  and  the  ocean  roars. 

'Tis  midnight  all :  but  see!  the  moon-beams  bright 

Silver  the  ocean  with  reflected  light  j 

Smooth  flows  the  wave,  and  whitening  o'er  the  deep, 

In  silent  grandeur  moves  the  stately  ship. 


50 

No  rough  winds  blow,  but  every  well  filled  sail, 
Bespeaks  the  genial  canvas-swelling  gale. 
Now  view  the  bending  deck — lo !  faithful  there 
The  seamen  stand,  with  ever  watchful  care ; 
And  lo !  the  wizard  hand  to  move  the  soul, 
With  seeming  life  has  crowned  the  wondrous  whole : 
Behind  the  ship  the  sparkling  waters  glow ; 
The  flashing  billows  foam  around  the  prow ; 
No  clouds  arise,  the  moving  bark  to  brave  ; 
The  moon  pale  trembles  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave. 


C.ETERA.  DESUNT. 


ODE  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  AMERI 
CAN  INDEPENDENCE,  JULY  4,1785. 

« 

TUNE — "  That  powft  who  formed  the  unmeasured  gead." 

« 

SONS  of  Columbia !  all  attend, 
And  give  the  genius  of  your  land, 
The  tribute  of  a  song ; 


£1 

i 

For  now,  eight  summers  past  away, 
Again  returns  the  glorious  clay, 
When  Freedom  made  us  strong. 

She  warmed  our  hearts  and  armed  our  hands, 
Breathed  generous  ardor  through  our  bands, 

And  bade  us  dare  be  free : 
By  her  inspired,  we  rush  to  fight, 
Resolved  to  conquer  in  her  right, 

And  INDEPENDENT  be. 

But  while  with  joy  the  board  is  crowned, 
Oh !  let  some  generous  tears  (low  round, 

For  heroes  great  and  good : 
Who,  martyrs  in  the  glorious  cause, 
Their  country,  liberty,  and  laws, 

Defended  with  their  blood. 

Let  not  great  WARREN'S  name  expire, 
While  your  breasts  glow  with  living  fire, 

And  swell  with  lust  of  fame : 
But  through  the  track  of  ages  known, 
Transmitted  from  the  sire  to  son, 

Immortal  be  the  name. 


52 


Bards  long  shall  sing  the  illustrious  train, 
Who  sleep  on  ABRAHAM'S  fatal  plain, 

Near  famed  St.  Lawrence  coast : 
There  to  the  great  MONTGOMERY'S  shade, 
Be  everlasting  honors  paid, 

And  peace  attend  the  ghost. 

Such  patriots,  still  to  memory  dear, 
Let  CAROLINA  long  revere ; 

By  whose  brave  fall  we  rise. 
While  joy  proclaims,  that  MOULTRIE  bears 
Our  government ;  and  high  he  rears     ' 

Its  fabric  to  the  skies. 

Thus,  long  as  time  itself  endure, 
Our  INDEPENDENCE  rests  secure, 

Nor  fears  a  tyrant's  nod. 
When  the  last  fire  involves  this  ball, . 
Then,  not  till  then,  the  cause  shall  fall, 

Of  liberty,  and  God. 

Then,  as  the  circling  year  comes  round, 
With  freedom's  choicest  blessings  crowned, 
We'll  hail  the  illustrious  day ; 


53 

And  every  poet  shall  resume 
His  annual  task,  in  years  to  come, 
To  raise  the  votive  lay. 


BATTLE   OF   SWARAN   AND   CUCHULL1N. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  FINOAL. 

As  from  dark  Cromla's*  solitary  steep, 

The  foam  down  rushes  with  impetuous  sweep, 

When  dark  brown  night  is  shadowing  half  the  grove, 

And  thunder  rolls  all  terribly  above ; 

So  fierce,  so  vast,  so  terrible,  came  on 

The  darkened  strength  of  Erin's  dreadful  son : 

Like  some  strong  whale  the  chieftain  rushed  before, 

While  far  behind  the  mountain  billows  roar; 


*  As  torrents  roll,  increased  by  numerous  rills, 
With  rage  impetuous,  down  the  echoing  hills, 
Rush  to  the  vales,  and  pour  along  the  plain, 
Roar  through  a  thousand  channels  to  the  main. 

POPE'S  HOMER. 

Aut  ubi  decursu  rapido,  de  montibus  altis, 
Dant  sonitum  spumosi  amnes,  et  in  equora  currunt, 
Quisque  Buuiu  populatus  iter. 

VIRGIL. 

5* 


54 

He  rolled  his  might  along  the  stormy  main, 
And  poured  forth  valor,  like  a  stream  of  rain. 

Like  winter  streams,  impetuous  from  afar, 
The  sons  of  Lochlin  heard  the  moving  war ; 
First,  Swaran  called,  and  struck  his  bossy  shield, 
The  son  of  Arno  echoed  through  the  field. 

"  What,  like  the  gathered  flies  of  evening  still, 
Comes  rolling  onward  from  the  distant  hill? 
The  stormy*  sons  of  Innisfail  descend, 
Or  rustling  winds  the  gloomy  forest  rend : 
Thus,  wintry  Gormai  echoes  through  the  skies, 
Ere  in  white  clouds  the  bursting  billows  rise. 
Go,  Arno's  son,  and  from  the  mountain's  head, 
View  the  dark  valley  whence  the  murmurs  spread." 

Trembling  he  went,  and  swiftly  he  returned, 
His  eyes  rolled  wild,  and  in  their  sockets  burned  ; 
Slow,  weak,  and  broken,  were  his  words  exprest, 
His  heart  beat  high,  and  labored  in  his  breast. 
"  Rise,  son  of  ocean,  view  the  fields— 

Arise,  thou  chief  of  dark-brown  shields : 

For  see — deep  moving  from  afar — 

The  dark,  the  mountain  stream  of  war ; 


*  As  when  the  hollow  rocks  retain 
The  sound  of  blustering  wind. 

MILTON. 


.        ;  .          .  y    •'. 

.:.,'.  ... 


SB 

The  car — the  car  invades  the  heath — 
The  rapid  car  of  gloomy  death : 
Behold,  it  comes  all  dreadful  on — 
Cuchul lin's  car ;  old  Semo's  son, 
lake  ocean's  wave,  behind  it  bends, 
•  As  golden  mist  the  heath  ascends : 
The  stone-bossed  sides  shed  sparkling  light, 
Like  seas  around  the  boat  of  night ; 
The  beam  of  polished  yew  displayed, 
The  seat  of  smoothest  ivory  made, 
The  sides  with  glittering  spears  are  crowned, 
And  heroes  press  the  bottom  round. 
Full  on  the  right,  with  rapid  course, 
Behold  the  proudly  snorting  horse, 
Son  of  the  hill,  (a  generous  breed,) 
High-leaping,  strong,  broad-breasted  steed : 
His  hoof,  with  loudly  echoing  sound, 
All  dreadful  thunders  o'er  the  ground  j 
Above  him  spreads  the  flowing  mane, 
As  streams  the  smoke  on  yonder  plain; 
His  sides  reflect  a  beamy  flame, 
And  Sulin-Fadda  is  his  name.      • 

Full,  on  the  left,  to  deeds  of  war, 
Dufronnel  hurls  the  rapid  car ; 
The  lofty,  bounding,  thin-maned  horse, 
Strong-hoofed,  and  matchless  in  the  course. 


A  thousand  thongs  the  car  intwine, 
In  foam  the  polished  bridles  shine ; 
The  thongs  which  gems,  bright-studded,  deck, 
Bend  o'er  each  courser's  stately  neck — 
1  The  coursers,  that,  with  slackened  reins, 
Like  mist  fly  o'er  the  streamy  plains : 
No  deer  more  rapid,  wild,  than  they, 
No  eagle  stronger  on  her  prey ; 
•    Like  winter  blasts  their  echoes  spread, 
Which  roar  from  Gormal's  snowy  head. 

And  see  the  chief  within  the  car, 
The  strong,  tempestuous  son  of  war, 
Midst  clashing  arms,  Cuchullin  dwells — 
Old  Seme's  son,  the  king  of  shells. 
His  ruddy  visage,  to  the  view, 
Shines  like  my  brightly  polished  yew : 
Beneath  his  brow  with  darkened  mein, 
The  wide,  blue-rolling  eye  is  seen. 
As  bending  on,  he  shakes  his  spear, 
Behind  him  spreads  his  flamy  hair : 
Fly,  king  of  ocean,  fly ;  like  death, 
He  comes  along  the  streamy  heath." 
"  When  did  I  fly,"  the  stormy  king  replied, 
"  From  many  spears  that  battled  at  my  side  ? 
When,  son  of  Arno,  from  the  loud  affray, 
Did  I  retire  ?  thou  coward  chieftain,  say : 


67 

Dark  Gormal's  storm  I  met ;  my  waves  foamed  high, 
Loud  raged  the  heavens,  but  Swaran  did  not  fly ; 
Nor  shall  he  fly !— though  Fingal's  self  were  here, 
The  soul  of  Swaran  could  not  yield  to  fear ; 
Rise  to  the  war,  my  thousands !  crowd  the  plain, 
And  pour  around  me  like  the  echoing  main : 
Round  the  bright  steel  of  gloomy  Swaran  stand, 
Strong  as  the  rocks,  the  mountains  of  my  land, 
That  meet  with  joy,  the  storms  which  round  them  pour; 
And  stretch  their  dark  woods  to  the  tempest's  roar." 

As  from  two  hills  loud  thundering  to  the  deep, 
The  darkened  storms  of  gloomy  autumn  sweep ; 
So  fierce,  so  dreadful,  o'er  the  field  of  fame, 
In  swift  approach  the  gloomy  warriors  came : 
As  from  high  rocks,  two  streams  of  gloomy  rain, 
Meet,  mix,  and  foam,  and  roar  upon  the  plain, 
Loud,  rough,  and  dark,  the  embattled  chiefs  appear; 
There  lunisfail,*  tremendous  Lochh'a  here  : 


*  The  reader  may  compare  this  passage  of  Ossian,  with 
a  similar  one  in  Homer : 

Now  shield  with  shield ;  with  helmet,  helmet  closed  ; 
To  armor,  armor ;  lance  to  lance  opposed ; 
Host  against  host,  with  shadowy  legions  drew ; 
The  sounding  darts  in  iron  tempests  flew ; 


58 

On  clanging  steel,  the  clanging  steel  resounds, 
Men  mix  with  men,  and  chieftain  chieftain  wounds ; 
Bursts  forth  the  gushing  blood,  and  smokes  around, 
And  iron  helmets  cleft  on  high  resound ; 
Along  the  sky  the  rushing  javelins  sing ; 
The  polished  bows  remurmur  to  the  string  ;       . 
And  spears  fall  glimmering,  like  the  beams  of  light, 
That  gild  the  dark  face  of  tempestuous  night. 

As  troubled  noises  of  the  ocean  rise, 
When  the  loud  waves  roll  mountains  to  the  skies ; 
As  the  last  peal  heaven's  awful  thunder  yields ; 
Such  is  the  noise  of  the  embattled  fields. 
Though  Cormac's  hundred  bards  their  notes  prolong, 
To  sound  the  contest  in  immortal  song, 
Weak  is  the  voice  a  hundred  bards  could  raise, 
To  give  the  slaughter  to  succeeding  days : 


With  streaming  blood  the  slippery  fields  are  dyed, 
And  slaughtered  heroes  swell  the  dreadful  tide. 

POPE'S  HOMEB. 
Statius  has  very  happily  imitated  Homer : 

Jam  clypeus  clypeis,  umbono  repollitur  umbo, 
Ense  minax  ensis,  pede  pes,  et  cuspide  cuspis,  &c. 

IS  I  ATI  US. 

Arms  o'er  armor  crashing,  brayed  . 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged,  &c. 

MILTON. 


59 

Unnumbered  warriors  .on  the  field  were  spread, 
And  wide  the  blood  streamed  of  the  valiant  dead. 

Mourn,  mourn,  ye  bards,  for  silent  in  the  grave 
Sithalliu*  lies,  the  noble  and  the  brave : 
Let  fair  Fiona'st  melancholy  sighs, 
On  the  dark  heaths  of  her  loved  ArdanJ  rise: 
Like  two  fair  deer  they  stood,  but  ah !  the  steel 
Of  Swaran  lighted,  and  the  warriors  fell : 
Midst  all  his  thousands,  Swaran  roared  aloud, 
Like  the  shrill  spirit  of  a  stormy  cloud, 
That  dim  on  Gormal,  sees  cold  death  enslave 
The  hapless  sailor  in  the  flashing  wave. 

Nor  yet  inactive  slept  thy  hand  the  while, 
Undaunted  chieftain  of  the  misty  isle  :§ 
Cuchullin's  steel  in  warrior  blood  was  dyed, 
And  death  was  round  him  terrible  and  wide : 
His  sword,  the  war,  like  lightning  overturned, 
When  men  are  blasted;  and  when  hills  are  burned. 


*  Sithallin  signifies  a  handsome  man. 

t  A  fair  maid. 

$  Pride. 

$  The  Isle  of  Sky,  not  improperly  called  the  Misty  Isle, 
ae  its  high  hills,  which  catch  the  clouds  from  the  western 
ocean,  occasion  almost  continual  rain. 


60 

O'er  heaps  of  dead,  Dufronnel*  snorted  loud, 
And  strong  Sith-Faddat  bathed  his  hoofs  in  blood. 

Behind  their  car  appeared  the  scene  of  death, 
Like  groves  o'erturned  on  Cromla's  desert  heath, 
When  roaring  winds  across  the  plain  have  past, 
And  night's  dim  spirits  ride  upon  the  blast. 

Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  storm, 
Oh  !  beauteous  maid  of  Inn  is  tore  ;t 

Bend  o'er  the  waves  thy  lovely  form, 
For,  ah !  the  warrior  is  no  more. 

Mourn,  mourn  the  desert  rocks  among. 
Thou  fairer  than  the  spirit  pale, 


*  Dud  Stron  Geal,  the  name  of  Cuchullin's  horse. 

f  Sith  Fadda,  i.  e.  Long  Stride. 

\  The  maid  of  Innistore  was  the  daughter  of  Gorlo,  king 
of  Innistore,  or  Orkney  Islands.  Trenar  was  brother  to  the 
king  of  Iniscon,  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  islands  of  Shet. 
land.  The  Orkneys  and  Shetland  were  at  that  time  subject 
to  the  king  of  Lochlin.  We  find  that  the  dogs  of  Trenar 
are  sensible  at  home  of  the  death  of  their  master,  the  ver> 
instant  he  is  killed.  It  was  the  opinion  of  the  times,  that 
the  souls  of  heroes  went,  immediately  after  death,  to  the  hills 
of  their  country,  and  the  scenes  they  frequented  the  most 
happy  time  of  their  life.  It  was  thought  too  that  dogs  and 
horses  saw  the  ghosts  of  the  deceased. 


61 

Which  on  a  sun-beam  move/along, 
At  noon 'o'er  Morven's  silent  vale. 


He's  fallen !  the  youth  is  pale  and  low, 
>  Beneath  Cuchuliin's  sword  he  lies ; 
No  more  his  valor's  generous  glow, 

To  match  the  blood  of  kings  shall  rise ; 
Trenar,  sweet  maid,  is  in  his  tomb, 

The  lovely  youth  is  ever  lost ; 
His  gray  dogs  howl  around  their  home, 

And  see  his  plaintive  shivering  ghost.     .      • 

: 

Within  his  hall  the  stranger  finds 
His  polished  bow,  unstrung  and  bare ; 

No  sound  is  in  his  heath  of  hinds— 
'Tis  all  a  mournful  silence  there. 

i  .    t 

On  comes  bold  Swaran  with  impetuous  roar, 
As  to  the  rocks  a  thousand  billows  pour ; 

1 

As  some  high  rock  a  thousand  billows  braves, 
So  fierce  Cuchullin  met  the  king  of  waves. 
And  now  death  raises  all  his  voices  round, 
The  clashing  shields  mix  dreadful  with  the  sound ; 
A  cloud  of  darkness,  every  hero  stands, 
The  sword  is  fire,  which  lightens  in  his  hands. 
6 


62 

As  o'er  the  anvil  with  tumultuous  noise, 
With  thundering  din  a  hundred  hammers  rise ; 
From  wing  to  wing  the  sounds  of  battle  fly, 
And  the  wide  fields  re-echo  to  the  cry. 

Who,  dark  and  gloomy,  like  two  clouds  of  rain,* 
With  swords  of  lightning,  move  across  the  plain? 
The  rocks  are  shook  with  all  their  shaggy  moss, 
And  hills  around  them  tremble  as  they  pass. 
Who  but  the  king  of  waves,  and  Semo's  son, 
(The  car-borne  Erin)  come  all  dreadful  on  ? 
What  anxious  eyes  view,  dim  upon  the  heath, 
The  adverse  warriors  meditating  deatli ! 
But  now  within  her  gathered  clouds  the  night 
Conceals  the  heroes,  and  delays  the  fight. 


*  As  when  two  black  clouds 
With  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
O'er  the  Caspian. 

MlLTON. 


63 


CONNAL   AND  CREMORA,       - 

ffEOM  OSSIJLN. 

. 

THE  voice  sounds  deep,  it  shakes  my  troubled  soul, 
Like  the  hoarse  surge  when  mountains  roll ! 
Tis  death  that  seeks  !    The  shady  ghosts  that  ride 
On  dreary  clouds,  and  sway  the  foamy  tide  ! 
Before  my  sight  the  awful  shades  appeared ; 
Deep  in  the  winds  their  hollow  groans  are  heard. 
Firm  as  a  rock,  oh  Connal !  didst  thou  stand 
On  Erin's  plain,  where  fought  thy  martial  band, 
Impetuous  as  the  northern  blasts  which  blow 
The  aged  oaks,  on  woody  Cromla's  brow : 
Dire  from  thy  starry  eyes  the  lightning  broke  ; 
Deep  in  thy  voice  the  storm  of  thunder  spoke. 
Then  fell  the  mighty !  Erin's  deathful  plain, 
With  crimson  gore,  the  sons  of  Lochlin  stain. 
Say,  king  of  Morven,  king  of  Selma,  say, 
Where  gleamed  the  lightning  of  thy  sword  that  day  ? 
As  stands  near  Luber's  stream  the  stubborn  wood, 
Firm  on  the  heath  the  mighty  Connal  stood ; 


'   •' 
> 


.  64 

On  came  bold  Dargo  with  the  dark  red  hair ; 
Like  stars  of  death  his  rolling  eye-balls  glare : 
The  warriors  met,  like  two  black  clouds  of  rain, 
Their  falchions  rose ;  brave  Connal  bit  the  plain. 
Cremora  then,  the  raven-haired,  was  nigh, 
She  let  the  shaft  at  stormy  Dargo  fly ; 
Prone  fell  the  warrior,  like  the  strong  big  oak, 
By  the  rough  force  of  powerful  thunder  broke ; 
Then  sought  the  place  where  late  her  Connal  stood, 
Where  now  he  lies,  disfigured  all  with  blood : 
From  his  cold  hand  she  seized  the  shaft,  and  sped 
Deep  in  her  side — Cremora's  spirit  fled. 
Low  at  the  mountain's  foot  their  tomb  is  found, 
The  name  of  Connal  consecrates  the  ground: 
The  hardy  sailor  oft  descries  their  grave, 
As  swift  he  ploughs  the  loud  resounding  wave ; 
And  still  their  memory  Lochlin's  sons  adore, 
While  the  reed  trembles  on  the  sea-beat  shore. 


65 


THE   SONGS   OF   SELMA. 

FROM  OlftUN. 

I 

* 

RESPLENDENT  star  of  falling  night, 
•   How  lovelv/in  the  west  thy  light ! 

Clouds  round  thy  unshorn  temples  move, 

And  stately  are  thy  steps  above. 

What  dost  thou  gaze  at  on  the  plain  ? 

The  stormy  winds  no  more  complain ; 

But  torrents  murmuring  lash  the  shore  ; 

Waves  climb  the  distant  rock,  and  roar ; 

On  busy  wing  the  flies  of  night 

Hum  and  pursue  their  drowsy  flight. 

What  dost  thou,  radiant  stranger,  view? — 

But  thou  dost  smile  and  bid  adieu; 

Around  thee  joyful  waves  repair, 

And  kiss  and  bathe  thy  lovely  hair. 
Farewell ! — thy  beams  depart,  and  twilight  dies : — 
Now  let  the  light  of  Ossian's  soul  arise. 

It  comes  !— in  all  its  strength  it  doth  arise, 
And  brings  departed  friends  before  my  eyes : 
They  crowd  on  Lora  as  in  former  years, 
And  Fingal  foremost  in  the  train  appears : 
6* 


66 

A  watery  column  of  thin  mist  be  seems, 
Midst  swarms  of  heroes,  visionary  gleams  t 
And  see !  the  bards  in  solemn  state  appear, 
There  hoary  Ullin,  stately  Rynp  here ; 
With  tuneful  Alpin,  sweet  melodious  shade, 
And  thy  soft  plaint,  Minona,  blushing  maid. 
How  changed,  alas !  since  Selma's  festive  days, 
When  we  contended  for  heroic  praise ; 
.  Like  vernal  gales  that  unresisted  pass, 

And  bend  by  turns  the  feebly  whistling  grass.       .  • « . 

•  ' 

Minona,  softly  blushing  dame, 

With  downcast  look,  disordered  frame, 

And  tearful  eye,  came  forth : 
Her  hair  flew  loosely  on  the  blast, 
That  shrill,  unfrequent,  o'er  the  waste, 

Rushed  from  the  stormy  north. 
Love,  grief,  and  pity  chained  each  tongue, 
Each  bosom  melted  while  she  sung, 

And  sternest  heroes  wept ; 
For  oft  they  Salgar's  grave  had  seen, 
And  the  dark  dwelling  where  serene 

White  bosomed  Colma  slept. 

See  Colraa,  on  the  hill  alone, 
And  hear  the  sad  melodious  moan 
Break  from  her  heavenly  tongue ; 


67 

Her  Salgar  promised — but  in  vain, 
For  night  descending  veiled  the  plain, 
And  thus  the  mourner  sung : 

'Tis  night ;  upon  the  stormy  h ill, 

Deserted  I  remain ; 
The  mountain  winds  are  whistling  shrill, 

The  torrent  pours  amain. 
No  friendly  hut  a  shelter  forms 

For  this  defenseless  head ; 
Forlorn,  upon  the  hill  of  storms, 
i      I  roam,  a  wretched  maid : 
Rise,  moon !  kind  stars  of  night !  appear, 

And  guide  me  to  the  place, 
Where  lies  my  love,  o'erspent  with  care, 

And  wearied  in  the  chase. 
Through  night's  uncomfortable  shade, 

I  see  him  press  the  ground ; 
His  unstrung  bow  beside  him  laid, 

His  panting  dogs  around. 
Here  where  the  mossy  streamlet  poura, 

All  night  must  Colma  rove ; 
The  torrents  rage,  the  tempest  roars, 

Nor  can  I  hear  my  love. 
Ho !  Salgar !  ho !  why  this  delay? 
Why  is  thy  promise  broke? 


68 

Here  is  the  rock,  the  hill,  the  tree, 

And  here  the  bubbling  brook ; 
Why  didst  thou  promise  with  the  night, 

Forgetful !  to  be  here  ? 
.    Are  then  my  Salgar's  vows  so  light? 

Am  I  no  more  his  care  ? 
For  thee,  I'd  from  my  sire  be  torn, 

My  haughty  brother  flee ; 
For  thee,  friends,  kindred,  country  scorn ; 

Leave  all  the  world  for  thee. 
What  though  our  race  have  long  been  foes, 

And  oft  in  battle  strove ; 
Yet  we  did  ne'er  their  strife  espouse, 

We  are  not  foes,  my  love. 
Cease,  winds  i  suspend  your  senseless  noise ; 

Waves !  stand  a  moment  still ; 
Perhaps,  my  love  may  hear  my  voice, 

Upon  yon  echoing  hill. 
Ho !  Salgar !  ho !  'tis  I,  my  love ; 

Ah !  why  this  long  delay  ? 
Here  is  the  rock,  the  tree,  the  grove— 
Haste,  Salgar  !  haste  away. 

Lo !  the  wan  moon,  majestic,  silent,  pale, 
Wide  o'er  the  etherial  vault  her  beams  displays ; 


69 

The  silver  current  brightens  in  the  vale, 
And  rocks  and  mountains  glitter  with  the  rays. 

In  vain  around  the  bright  effulgence  gleams, 
The  rocks  in  vain  reflect  the  splendors  wide ; 

I  see  not  Salgar,  by  the  fruitless  beams, 
His  panting  dogs  rejoicing  by  his  side. 

But  who  are  they,  all  pale,  on  yonder  heath? 

My  love,  my  brother,  speak ;  oh !  speak,  my  friends ; 
They  answer  not — cold !  cold  they  lie  in  death ! 

Oh  !  my  distracted  soul,  what  horror  rends ! 

And  see  !  their  swords  in  mutual  blood  imbrued ; 

The  purple  stream  yet  smokes  upon  the  plain: 

'  Why,  Salgar,  hast  thou  shed  my  brother's  blood? 

Why,  oh !  my  brother,  hast  thou  Salgar  slain? 

' 

Ye  both  were  dear  to  Colma ;  oh  brave  men ! 

How  shall  I  half  your  matchless  worth  declare? 
Midst  thousands  thou  wert  fairest  on  the  plain, 

He  terrible  among  the  sons  of  war. 

Speak,  I  adjure  you  by  the  love  I  bore ; 
Oh !  hear  my  voice,  dear  objects  of  my  pain : 


70 

Pale,  senseless,  silent,  on  the  naked  shore 
They  lie;  and  prayers,  and  tears,  and  cries  are  vain. 

Oh !  by  yon  rock,  sublimely  spread, 
By  the  black  mountain's  airy  brow, 

Speak,  speak,  ye  spirits  of  the  dead! 

The  balm  of  consolation  spread, 
And  sooth  my  heart,  and  ease  my  wo. 

Oh  !  whither  are  ye  gone  to  rest  ? 

In  what  lone  cave  may  ye  be  found  ? 
No  airy  form  glides  o'er  the  waste, 
No  hollow  sound  is  in  the  blast ; 

No  answer— half  in  tempests  drowned. 

Oh  friends !  in  pity  rear  the  tomb, 
Nor  close  it  till  your  Colma  come  : 
My  life  flies  swifter  than  a  dream  j 

Why  should  I  stay  when  ye  are  fled  ? 
Here  by  the  rock  and  roaring  stream 

I'll  sit,  companion  of  the  dead ; 
At  night,  when  tempests  tear  the  heath, 
I'll  tell  to  every  blast,  your  death. 


71 


THE   SHIELD  OF   ACHILLES. 

TBi.NiLA.TED  FROM  THE  GREEK  Of  HOMER— ILIAD  XVIII. 

THEN  formed  the  artist-god,  by  skill  divine, 
The  enormous  work,  and  bade  the  surface  shine ; 
A  silver  chain  suspends  the  glowing  shield, 
And  three  rich  circles  glitter  round  the  field. 
Broad  and  five- fold,  of  spacious  plates  'twas  made, 
Where  the  great  master  all  his  art  displayed : 
Heaven,  earth,  and  sea  in  wondrous  order  shone, 
The  full  round  moon,  and  the  unwearied  sun  ; 
The  burning  stars  that  o'er  Olympus  rise, 
Crown  the  high  heavens,  and  glitter  in  the  skies. 
Pleiads  and  Hyads,  and  refulgent  there, 
Shone  great  Orion,  with  the  constant  Bear,* 


*  Pope's  translation : 

The  Pleiads,  Hyads,  with  the  northern  team, 
And  great  Orion's  more  refulgent  beam  ; 
To  which,  around  the  axle  of  tho  sky, 
The  Bear  revolving  points  his  golden  eye, 
Still  shines  exalted  on  the  ethereal  plain, 
Nor  bathes  his  blazing  forehead  in  the  main. 
Mr.  Pope,  amidst  a  small  mistake  of  the  sex,  keepi  only 
the  forehead  above  water :  but  the  poet  seems  to  exempt  her 


.  72 

•  • 

(Oft  called  the*  Wain,)  the  star  that  never  laves 

Her  glowing  axle  in  old  ocean's  waves ; 

But  wheeling  round  the  pole  with  constant  light, 

Keeps  the  refP  Dog-star  ever  in  her  sight. 

Two  cities  next  the,  artist's  hand  displayed, 
Where  nuptial  leasts  and  festivals  were  made ; 
The  spouses  from  the  bridal 'chambers  came, 
Led  through  their  city  by  the  torches'  flame ; 
From  every  mouth  soft  hymeneals  sound, 
The  rapid  youths  in  circling  dances  bound, 
Breathe  the  sweet  flute,  and  tune  the  silver  lyre  ; 
From  every  porch  the  female  crowds  admire. 

The  market  next  contained  a  gathered  crowd, 
Where  two  dispute,  contentious  and  aloud : 


entirely ;  and  so  does  Virgil,  when  he  makes  fear  account 
for  the  same  phenomenon,  that  Ovid  (who  preserves  all  the 
fables  of  the  ancients)  ascribes  to  force. 

Maximus  hie  flcxu  sinuoso  elabitur  Anguis 
Circum,  perque  duas  in  morem  fluminis  Arctos : 
Arctos,  Oceani  metuentes  tcquore  tii.gi. 

VIRGIL'S  GEORGICS,  Lib.  i.  244. 

Around  our  pole  the  spiry  Dragon  glides, 
And  like  a  winding  stream,  the  Bears  divides, 
The  less  and  greater,  who,  by  fate's  decree, 
Abhor  to  dive  beneath  the  Northern  Sea. 

DRYDEN. 


73 

A  murderer  he,  from  whose  polluted  hands, 
To  urge  the  fine,  his  stern  accuser  stands ; 
He  pleads  the  payment  made,  and  both  demand 
Impartial  justice  from  some  judge's  hand : 
The  applauding  crowd  their  acclamations  raised, 
And  now  the  one,  and  now  the  other  praised ; 
While  sacred  heralds,  thoughtful  and  profound, 
Stilled  the  loud  shouts,  and  ranged  the  people  round: 
On  seats  of  polished  stone,  to  hear  the  case, 
The  reverend  elders  filled  the  middle  place ; 
Each  in  his  turn,  slow  rising  from  his  seat, 
The  sceptre  waved,  and  governed  the  debate ; 
Two  golden  talents  in  the  midst  were  laid, 
And  his  the  prize  who  better  judgment  made. 

The  other  town  two  glittering  hosts  besieged ; 
There  flashed  their  armor,  there  the  battle  raged : 
Both  disagreed,  if  better  to  decide 
The  city's  ruin,  or  the  spoil  divide. 
Meantime  the  prisoners  secretly  prepare 
For  sudden  ambush,  and  impetuous  war  ; 
While  left  behind  the  walls,  their  city's  aid, 
The  sires,  the  matrons,  and  the  children  staid  : 
Fierce  at  their  head  Mars  and  Minerva  came, 
The  gods  of  gold  in  golden  armor  flame  j 
They  move,  distinguished  by  superior  height, 
More  sweet  proportions,  and  a  blaze  of  light. 
7 


.  74 

Now  at  their  stand  they  come,  a  river's  brink, 
Where  lowing  herds  and  thirsty  cattle  drink ; 
Hid  by  their  shields,  the  margin  stream  they  line, 
Two  spies,  at  distance,  watch  the  lowing  kine ; 
The  numerous  cattle  and  white  flocks  appear, 
Slowly  they  move,  two  shepherds  in  the  rear ; 
They  tune  their  dulcet  reeds,  and  all  the  way 
Suspect  no  danger,  thoughtless  as  they  play. 

Now  swift  in  view  the  rushing  foe  appeared  j 
They  kill  the  swains,  and  captivate  the  herd ; 
The  distant  bands,  roused  at  the  shrill  outcry, 
On  thundering  coursers  to  the  battle  fly : 
Then  spears  to  spears  the  differing  hosts  engaged, 
Loud  roared  the  war,  and  fierce  the  battle  raged ; 
Fate  and  loud  tumult  shake  the  echoing  heath, 
And  discord  busy  in  the  work  of  death. 
There  might  you  see  the  cruel  Parca's  hand 
Drag  the  dead  soldier  through  the  bloody  band ; 
One  pierced  with  deadly  wounds  beside  her  bled  ; 
Her  steel  flashed  lightning  o'er  another's  head  : 
All  grim  with  blood  she  through  the  battle  tore, 
And  her  stained  garments  dropped  with  human  gore. 
Each  form  appeared  upon  the  wondrous  shield, 
To  live,  to  move,  to  battle  o'er  the  field : 
You'd  think  the  figures  really  drew  their  dead, 
That  the  gold  lived,  and  that  the  silver  bled. 


75 


A  large  deep  furrowed  field  was  next  displayed, 
Where  thrice  the  plough-share  had  unbound  the  glade; 
Their  useful  team  the  sweating  laborers  steer, 
And  move  on  every  side  the  stubborn  share ; 
Till,  as  they  turn  to  end  each  furrowing  line, 
They  meet  the  goblet  foaming  o'er  with  wine. 
Cheered  with  thedraught,aback\vard  course  they  bend, 
And  eager  hasten  to  the  next  land's  end ; 
The  field  (Vulcanian  art)  was  formed  of  gold, 
But  black  behind  the  turned-up  furrows  rolled. 

Another  field  the  god-like  hand  engraved, 
Where  yellow  corn  high  o'er  the  surface  waved ; 
Each  reaper  bending,  handled  the  sharp  steel, 
The  swaths  in  thick  and  equal  furrows  fell ; 
Three  steady  laborers  stand,  in  act  to  bind 
The  thick  strown  corn,  and  follow  close  behind ; 
While  panting  children  carry  to  be  bound 
The  thin  loose  swaths  that  scatter  on  the  ground. 
Amidst  the  heaps  the  master  takes  his  stand 
Witfy  silent  joy,  a  sceptre  in  his  hand : 
Distant  from  these  his  household  stand,  and  there 
The  feast  beneath  a  shadowy  oak  prepare  : 
The  victim  ox  they  hold,  and  women  knead 
Their  cates  of  wheaten  flour,  the  reaper's  meed. 

A  vineyard  next  beneath  his  hand  arose ; 
In  ripening  gold  the  yellow  vintage  glows ; 


76 

The  dark  plump  grapes  in  heavy  clusters  rest 

On  props  of  silver)  "  suing  to  be  prest." 

A  different  metal  closes  all  within, 

A  darkened  trench,  and  pallisades  of  tin  ; 

One  narrow  path  leads  winding  to  the  place, 

Through  which  the  laborers  to  the  vineyard  pass ; 

With  woven  baskets,  forming  in  a  line, 

The  youths  and  maidens  bear  the  latent  wine. 

Midst  these,  a  youth  attunes  the  trembling  strings  ; 

Old  Linus'  song  the  charming  lyrist  sings : 

They  dance  responsive  to  the  tuneful  sound  ; 

All  join  in  chorus,  and  the  song  goes  round. 

Now  herds  of  gold  appear ;  the  oxen  tall  , 

Erect  their  heads,  and  bellow  from  the  stall, 
Haste  to  the  meadows,  where  with  stunning  sound, 
The  rapid  torrent  thunders  through  the  ground. 
Four  herdsmen  follow,  glittering  in  the  gold, 
And  nine  large  mastiffs,  terrible  and  bold. 
Two  shaggy  lions  seize  a  bull — in  vain 
He  roars,  he  struggles,  dragged  across  the  plain  ; 
They  tear  his.  entrails,  and  they  quaff  the  gore, 
While  swift  to  rescue,  dogs  and  herdsmen  pour  : 
In  vain  the  herdsmen  hearten  them  to  rage, 
The  dogs  bark  distant,  fearful  to  engage. 

Next,  a  fair  scene  the  ravished  eye  beholds : 
A  beauteous  valley  to  the  sight  unfolds ; 


77 

White,  snowy  flocks  of  fleecy  sheep  are  here, 
And  folds,  and  sheds,  and  cottages  appear. 

Then  formed  the  master  hand  the  smooth  advance, 
And  various  figure  of  the  waving  dance : 
Such  Ariadne,  beauteous  queen,  beheld, 
In  Gnossus'  court,  by  Daedalus  revealed.; 
There  hand  in  hand  the  youths  and  maidens  join, 
Form  the  sweet  wave,  and  undulate  the  line ; 
The  youths  in  glossy  shining  silks  appear, 
The  beauteous  maidens  in  the  white  cymar  ; 
Fair  wreaths  of  flowers  their  lovely  locks  embrace, 
The  youthful  bund  the  golden  falchions  grace ; 
All  gayly  at  their  sides,  with  graceful  swing, 
They  hang,  suspended  by  a  silken  string, 
Here  swift  they  move,  and  rapid  as  they  fly, 
The  varying  forms  seem  blended  in  the  eye. 
Whirled  in  a  circle  flies  the  giddy  reel, 
As  on  its  centre  turns  the  rapid  wheel, 
(His  finished  labor  when  the  potter  tries,) 
And  all  too  rapid  for  the  sight  it  flies : 
At  once  they  move,  through  devious  mazes  meet, 
And  wind  away  the  dance  with  measured  feet : 
Unnumbered  crowds  enjoy  the  pleasing  sight, 
And  gaze  tjie  revels,  eager  with  delight. 


7* 


78 

In  active  feats  two  nimble  tumblers  bound, 
While  the  whole  circle  bears  the  song  around. 

Thus  grew  the  mighty  shield ;  around  the  verge,* 
Poured  the  great  ocean  with  its  rapid  surge ; 
He  made  the  deep  its  whole  circumference  lave, 
And  smooth  against  it  beat  the  silver  wave. 


*  Evh  iT<8w  iroretpcia.  Ho  described  the  rapid  surges  of 
the  great  ocean,  and  caused  the  waves  thereof  to  roll  round 
(or  encompass)  the  whole  circumference. 

Mr.  Pope  observes,  that  this  being  the  frame  of  the  whole 
shield,  is  but  slightly  touched  upon.  It  was  unhappy  in  Mr. 
Pope,  that  he  was  more  negligent  than  his  author.  Homer 
gives  us,  with  sublimity,  the  "  foaming  rapid  course  of  the 
great  ocean."  Of  this,  Mr.  Pope  makes  no  mention ;  in 
deed,  Homer's  ocean,  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Pope,  appears  to 
have  lost  considerably  of  its  majestic  grandeur. 

Thus  the  broad  shield  complete  the  artist  crowned 
With  his  last  hand,  and  poured  the  ocean  round ; 
In  living  silver  seemed  the  waves  to  roll, 
And  beat  the  buckler's  verge,  and  crowned  the  whole. 


i  79 

••  •  • 

ANATOMICAL  CHAPTER  OF  KOHELETH, 
THE  ROYAL  PREACHER, 

TBA.BSLi.TED. 

Now,  in  the  day  while  vigorous  youth  remains, 
Glows  in  *he  face,  and  revels  in  the  veins, 
Attend,  oh  man !    To  memory's  care  intrust 
The  God,  whose  wisdom  fashioned  thee  from  dust : 
For  soon,  alas  !  the  pleasant  moments  fly, 
And  years  of  sorrow  all  too  soon  are  nigh. 
Then  wilt  thou  say,  (while  time,  by  heaven's  command, 
Shall  warp  thy  features  with  his  rugged  hand,) 
Then  wilt  thou  say, '  alas !  from  me  is  fled 
The  joyful  hour,  and  every  pleasure's  dead.' 

For  then,each  scene  which  moved  thee  with  delight, 
Each  pleasant  scene  shall  fade  upon  thy  sight ; 
While  shortened  of  their  rays,  with  visage  dun, 
Shines  the  full  moon,  and  the  unwearied  sun ; 
The  stars  grow  darker  in  the  etherial  skies, 
And  rheums  drop  ceaseless  from  thy  clouded  eyes? 

*  The  translator  has  chosen  to  follow  this  sense,  instead  of 
Dr.  Mead's,  it  being  the  more  probable  of  the  two.  Koheleth 
»     was  then  speaking  of  the  decaying  sight.    "  The  cloudi  re» 
turn  alter  rain." 


80 

Trembling  shall  seize  thee  in  the  palsied  hand, 
For  frail  the  keepers  of  the  mansion  stand. 
Few,  and  decayed,  the  grinding  teeth  shall  be, 
And  bowed  the  mighty  mant  the  tottering  knee. 
Lo !  the  soul's  windows  dark  and  gloomy  grow  J 
The  eye  sinks  beamless  in  the  gathered  brow ; 
That  door]  the  mouth,  shuts  folding  in  the  street ; 
The  falling  jaw  grinds  silently  the  .meat. 
Blind  and  unconscious  of  the  sunny  ray, 
The  cock's  shrill  note*  shall  tell  thee  when  'tis  day  j 
Though  scarce  'tis  heard,  for  hearing  is  decayed, 
And  low  the  daughters  of  the  song\  are  laid. 

Then  shall  thy  tottering  step,  thy  failing  sight, 
Whene'er  thou  walkest  fill  thee  with  affright  ;t 
Unusual  terror  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Lest  some  high  place§  precipitate  the  blind. 
The  almond  tree  its  leafy  boughs  shall  spread, 
And  pour  white  blossoms  on  thy  snowy  head ; 
Then  vigorous  love  shall  fail,  and  warm  desire, 
And  cold  and  lifeless  be. the  vital  fire : 


*  He  shall  rise  up  at  the  voice  of  the  bird. 

f  The  ears. 

|  Fear  shall  be  in  the  way. 

$  They  shall  be  afraid  of  that  which  is  high. 

Those  who  wish  to  see  more  upon  this  curious  subject, 
may  consult  Poole's  Annotations,  and  the  Medica  Sacra  of 
Dr.  Richard  Mead. 


81 

For  man  then  hastens  to  his  long,  long  home, 
And  through  the  streets  the  busy  mourners  come. 
'Tis  then  the  silver  cord  of  life  is  slack, 
The  spinal  marrow  loosens  in  the  back ; 
The  bones  give  way,  the  tottering  pelvis  shakes, 
Till  at  the  fount  the  bony  pitcher  breaks ; 
The  skull,  that  whilom  held  the  impatient  soul, 
Gives  way,  and  broken  is  the  golden  bowl; 
The  wheel  stands  broken  at  the  cistern's  head, 
The  heart  is  moveless  and  the  pulse  is  fled : 
Then  while  around  thee,  weeping  kindred  mourn, 
The  dust  shall  prostrate  to  the  dust  return  ; 
The  immortal  soul  shall  quit  the  frail  abode, 
And  soar  sublimely  to  the  realms  of  God. 


JOSHUA. 

ON  that  great  day  when  heaven  appeared  in  fight, 
And  Israel  conquered  the  proud  Amorite ; 
Amid  the  tribes  intrepid  Joshua  stood, 
Arrayed  in  all  the  terrors  of  his  God. 
Whene'er  he  moved,  the  heathen  were  dismayed ; 
But,  when  he  spoke,  the  host  of  heaven  obeyed : 


82 

" Sun,  be  thou  silent  o'er  Gileorfs  hill* 
And  thou,  oh  moon !  in  Ajalon  be  still" 
Then  paused  the  astonished  sun — the  moon  beheld 
Each  scene  of  death,  and  hovered  o'er  the  field. 


*  Joshua  has  been  wrongfully  accused  of  commanding  the 
sun  to  stand  still,  and  so  of  contradicting  the  Copernican 
system.  This  error  has  originated  from  our  common  ver 
sion  of  tht;  Bible,  and  we  have  by  this  means  overlooked  a 
most  remarkable  beauty  in  the  original.  Joshua  does  not, 
as  vulgarly  supposed,  command  the  sun  to  stand  still,  that  he 
may  have  day-light  sufficient  to  conquer  his  enemies.  This 
conquest  appears  to  have  been  already  effected.  The  sun 
and  the  moon  are  sublimely  introduced  as  spectators :  they 
are  silent  in  the  midst  of  heaven,  undgaze  with  astonish* 
ment  at  the  acts  of  Israel*  of  Joshua,  and  the  terrible  slaugh 
ter  of  the  Amorites  by  hailstones.  Here  was  room  for  the 
boldest  figures,  and  the  sublimcst  astonishment.  The  sun 
and  moon  arc  introduced  ;  they  are  called  upon  to  be  silent , 
(i.  e.  Astonished,)  and  we  are  informed  they  are  so.  This 
is  perhaps  among  the  finest  instances  of  the  prosopopeia ; 
nothing  can  be  more  sublimely  imagined. 

The  following  is  nearly  a  literal  translation  from  the 
Hebrew:  ^ 

And  Joshua  spake  to  Aleim,  the  day  when  Aleim  deliver 
ed  up  the  Amorites  to.  Israel,  and  Joshua  said  before  Israel, 
Sun,  be  thou  silent  upon  Gibeon,  and  thou,  oh  moon,  in  the 
vale  of  Ajalon.  And  the  siyi  was  silent,  and  the  moon 
stayed,  after  the  people  were  avenged  of  their  enemies. 
Shall  not  this  be  written  in  the  book  of  the  (Jasher)  right 
eous,  that  the  sun  was  silent  in  the  midst  of  heaven,  and 
hasted  not  during  a  whole  day. 

JOSHUA,  x.  12, 13. 


83 

Then  her  dun  orb,  by  power  supreme  controlled, 
Pale  through  the  heavens  in  silent  grandeur  rolled : 
Say,  shall  not  this  to  latest  time  descend, 
In  the  fair  volume  by  the  righteous  penned  ? 
For  one  whole  day,  by  heaven's  eternal  will, 
The  sun  stood  silent,  and  the  moon  was  still. 


THE     WAR     HORSE. 


PARAPHRASE  FROM  JOB. 


"  And  hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength,  hut  thou 
clothed  his  neck  with  thunder  3" 


AGAIN  the  Almighty  from  the  whirlwind  broke, 
And  thus  to  Job  in  stern  continuance  spoke : 
"Didst  thou  the  horse  with  strength  unequalled  mould, 
Whose  lofty  neck  the  writhen  thunders  fold  1 
And  canst  thou  make  the  intrepid  courser  fly, 
When  steely  dangers  glitter  in  his  eye  ? 


See !  all  around  him  spreads  the  flamy  cloud, 

Spurned  from  his  nostrils,  while  he  snorts  aloud  j 

* 


84 

Trembling  with  vigor,  how  he  paws  the  ground, 
A 14  hurls  the  thunder  of  his  strength  around ! 
Behold !  he  pants  for  war :  and  scorning  flight, 
Collects  his  strength  and  rushes  to  the  fight. 

When  clouds  of  darts  a  sable  horror  spread, 
And  the  full  quiver  rattles  o'er  his  head ; 
To  him  no  dread  the  sound  of  battle  bears, 
The  clash  of  armor  and  the  strife  of  spears ; 
But  o'er  his  neck  his  waving  mane  reclined, 
Spreads  to  the  gale,  and  wantons  in  the  wind : 
He  spurns  the  field,  fierce,  terrible,  and  strong, 
And  rolb  the  earth  back  as  he  shoots  along. 

Lo !  where  the  strife  the  distant  warriors  wage, 
The  neighing  courser  snuffs  the  sanguine  rage  ; 
While  roaring  trumpets,  and  the  dire  affray 
Provoke  his  laughter  on  that  dreadful  day  j 
More  loud  he  snorts,  more  terrible  he  foams, 
When  nearer  still  the  storm  of  battle  comes, 
And  mingling  roars  are  dreadful  on  the  heath, 
In  shouts  of  victory,  and  groans  of  death. 


i 


85 


THE   DESCRIPTION  OF   JEHOVAH. 

FROM  PSALM  XVIII. 

TUNE— "  That  power  who  formed  the  unmeasured  seat)." 

HE  spoke,  and  lo !  the  heavens  were  bowed ; 
High  on  cherubic  wings  he  rode, 

Majestic  to  behold : 
Profoundest  night,  the  black  abyss, 
And  the  thick  gloom  of  all  the  skies, 

Beneath  his  feet  were  rolled. 

Tempestuous  winds  about  him  past, 
Sublime  upon  the  winged  blast, 

The  great  Jehovah  came ; 
He  flew  abroad  all  clothed  in  fire, 
But  bade  thick  clouds  of  smoke  aspire, 

To  wrap  the  horrid  flame. 

Enfolding  skies  his  brightness  vailed, 
And  in  the  depth  of  night  concealed, 
His  dread  pavilion  stood :     x 
8 


The  blackened  clouds  around  him  sweep, 
And  the  dark  waters  of  the  deep 
Enthrone  their  sovereign  God. 

Midst  pealing  thunders,-  fire,  and  smoke, 
Jehovah's  awful  silence  broke, 

And  shook  the  powers  beneath  ; 
The  rapid  lightnings  of  the  sky,    . 
Commissioned  by  the  great  Most  High, 

Were  scattered  by  his  breath. 


PSALM   CXXXVII. 

(SPECIMEN   OF  A  MEW   AMERICAN  VERSION. 

WHEN  Zion's  memory  saddened  every  soul, 
How  much  we  wept !  how  many  were  our  sighs ! 

By  those  slow  rivers,  which  in  silence  roll 
Where  the  proud  spires  of  Babylon  arise ! 

Our  silent  harps  the  lonely  willows  bore, 

No  longer  tuneful,  since  no  longer  strung ; 
Alas !  their  music — for  'twas  heard  no  more, 
•  No  tabret  trembled,  and  no  warbler  sung. 


87 

Yet  the  proud  victors,  all  insulting,  stray 

Through  our  lone  bands,  and  bid  our  sorrows  cease : 

"  Give  us  a  song"  the  thoughtless  victors  say, 
"A  song  of  Zion  in  her  days  of  peace" 

» 

A  song  of  peace ! — ah !  thoughtless  men,  no  more ! 

For  how  can  we  JEHOVAH'S  praises  sing? 
Midst  victor  nations,  on  a  foreign  shore, 

How  can  we  tune  the  sweetly  trembling  string  ? 

Oh !  SALEM,  SALEM,  land  forever  dear ! 

When  thoughts  of  thee  no  longer  warm  my  heart, 
May  I  experience  vengeance  most  severe, 

And  all  the  vigor  of  my  hand  depart. 

To  the  parched  palate  may  my  tongue  be  bound, 
Ere  much-loved  SALEM  shall  forgotten  be ; 

Ere  thou  inferior  to  my  joys  art  found ; 
Or  my  best  wishes  centre  not  in  thee. 

Remember,  Lord,  thy  Zion's  many  foes  j 
The  sons  of  Edom,  with  their  warlike  powers ,' 

Around  our  city  how  the  crowd  arose, 
And  urged  the  ruin  of  her  peaceful  towers. 


88 

Lo  i  now  the  dire  destroying  angel  rides ! 

And  bear,  oh  Edom  i  land  forever  curst — 
Blest  shall  he  be,  who,  while  our  vengeance  guides, 

Lays  thy  proud  turrets  smoking  in  the  dust. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who,  all  thy  little  ones, 
That  prattle  round,  with  ruthless  ruin  greets, 

To  dash  them  brainless  on  the  spattered  stones, 
And  spread  the  carnage  o'er  the  bloody  streets. 


t 

• 


PSALM   CXLIX. 

SPECIMEN   OF  A  NEW  AMERICAN  VERSION 

To  God,  the  King  of  heaven,  prepare 
The  newest  song,  the  noblest  air ; 
And  let  his  crowded  churches  join 
Their  chorus  in  the  grand  design. 

V, 

To  Him  the  tribute  Israel  gives, 
By  whom  he's  formed,  by  whom  he  lives ;          i 
And  in  their  King,  with  cheerful  voice,  < 

The  sons  of  Zion  shall  rejoice. 


89 

Let  them  with  stately  steps,  advance 
His  honors,  in  the  winding  dance; 
To  praise  his  name,  with  songs  conspire, 
The  tabret  and  the  tuneful  lyre. 

He  'loves  the  church,  and  ever  kind, 
He  still  assists  the  humble  mind: 
Then  let  his  joyful  people  raise 
Melodious  anthems  to  his  praise. 

Still  shall  the  church  his  might  proclaim, 
And  still  repeat  the  awful  name ; 
While  glittering  weapons,  double-steeled, 
Each  braver  hand  with  power  shall  wield. 

Thus  shall  they  spread  his  glory  wide, 
O'er  all  the  extent  of  heathen  pride ; 
And  captive  kings  shall  own  his  reign, 
In  many  a  fettered  iron  chain. 

His  awful  will  their  God  commands, 
To  spread  o'er  all  the  heathen  lands  j 
But  his  loved  saints  enjoy  alone, 
Such  honors  from  the  eternal  throne, 


90 


ODE  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

•    "  '  • 

YES,  FRIENDSHIP  !  though  thou'rt  seldom  found, 

Without  the  skirts  of  fairy  ground  j 

Yet  sometimes  those  of  better  mould, 

Thy  lovely  visage  may  behold. 

And  sometimes  thou  dost  deign  to  stay 

With  mortals  of  inferior  clay. 

Sweet  are  thy  footsteps  on  the  green, 

And  sweet  the  cots  where  thou  art  seen : 

Thy  wonted  haunts  are  passing  fair, 

For  souls  are  blest,  when  thou  art  there. 

Oh !  leave  the  ambrosial  scenes  above, 

Dear  sister  of  impassioned  love ! 

And  clad  in  thy  celestial  bloom, 

Come  to  my  soul,  oh  goddess !  come. 


She  came :  sweet  friendship  all  'confest, 
Presided  o'er  my  peaceful  breast ; 
Far  from  my  soul  she  banished  care ; 
And  centered  all  Elysium  there. 


91 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  THE  ALMIGHTY. 


MY  God !  the  Father  of  mankind, 
Whose  bounty  all  things  share ; 

Let  me  thy  grace  my  portion  find- 
All  else  beneath  thy  care* 

I  ask  not  titles;  wealth,  or  state, 
By  joyless  hearts  possessed ;  • 

Yet  may  I  still  be  rich  and  great, 
If  virtue  fill  my  breast. 

Let  fervent  charity  remain 

Forever  in  my  breast ; 
Oh  !  let  me  feel  another's  pain, 

In  others'  joys  be  blest. 

To  charity  within  my  breast, 
;Let  steady  faith  unite ; 

Nor  let  me  from  thy  law  depart, 
Nor  let  me  live  by  sight. 


With  patience  fortify  my  mind, 
To  bear  each  future  ill  j 

In  life,  and  death,  alike  resigned 
To  thine  unerring  will. 


THE    LOVER'S    TRAGEDIE, 

OB, 

THE   STORY   OP   ELDRED   AND   ISABEL. 

. 

MODEBNIZED   FROM    THOMAS    BOWLIE,  OF    I3HI8TOWE,   IN 
OWLDB    INGLONDE. 

..."  ,'.*'• 

THERE  dwelt  in  Alberton  of  yore, 

A  knight  of  mickle  fame, 
Whose  youth  full  many  a  hardship  bore, 

And  Eldred  was  his  name. 

Some  twenty  winters  had  he  seen — 

Their  openings  and  their  close ; 
Yet  that  short  space,  too  well  I  ween, 

Was  measured  out  in  woes. 


93 

Heaven  had  with  knowledge  blest  his  mind, 

And  wit  in  high  degree, 
Where  wisdom  was  with  virtue  joined, 

And  gentle  charitie. 

Ah !  luckless  Eldred,  what  avails 
,    Thy  wit,  and  learning's  store  ? 
To  tell  thy  fate  my  heart  befayls— • 
I  grieve  and  weep  full  sore. 

For  now,  alas !  the  time  was  come, 

To  try  his  strength  of  heart ; 
When  he  to  other  lands  must  roam, 

And  from  his  friends  depart. 

For  now,  the  change  of  life's  affairs, 

And  interest  called  him  forth : 
Oh !  let  young  Eldred  have  your  prayers, 

Ye  men  of  mickle  worth  ! 

Too  much  his  manly  bosom  heaved, 

To  leave  his  friends  behind : 
Too  much  the  sharp  affliction  grieved 

The  sweetness  of  his  mind. 


1 


04 

For  in  that  mind  was  softness  poured  j 
Much  tenderness  was  there ; 

With  love  sincere,  and  friendship  stored, 
To  soften  every  care. 

Yet  still  since  heaven  ordained  it  so, 
He  could  hia  friends  yleave  j 

From  merriment  could  lightsome  go, 
And  ibr  no  pleasure  grieve. 

Yet  there  was  one  who  held  his  heart, 

By  ties  he  could  not  break ; 
Young  Isabel— with  whom  to  part, 

Ycaused  his  bosom  ache. 

• 
Full  oft  him  on  his  couch  he  laid, 

While  tears  in  streams  would  flow, 
And  prayed  dark  even's  friendly  shade 

To  soothen  all  his  wo. 

But  time,  which  for  no  living  wight, 

His  running  will  delay, 
la  still  the  lover's  foeman  hight, 

As  learned  clerks  do  say. 


G5 

For  now  his  glass  did  swiftly  run, 

Bringing  the  dreaded  day, 
When  he  must  gird  him  to  be  gone, 

And  hie  him  far  away. 

He  left  his  friends  with  rueful  mood, 

And  fast  the  tear  drops  fell ; 
But  ere  he  mounts  his  charger  good, 

He  seeks  young  Isabel. 

In  beauty's  lists  the  maiden  shone, 

The  first  among  the  fair ; 
While  wisdom  made  her  mind  his  throne, 

And  heaven  resided  there. 

She  felt,  ah  !  well  I  ween,  she  felt 

The  youthful  Eldred's  wo; 
For  heaven  had  formed  that  heart  to  melt, 

And  formed  that  breast  to  glow. 

And  why  that  sorrowing  look  ?  she  cries, 
And  why  that  haggard  cheek  ? 

Oh  Eldrcd !  whence  those  bursting  sighs 
That  gloomy  thoughts  bespeak  ? ' 


. 
06 


Alas !  my  love,  he  cries,  I  go 

All  o'er  the  faithless  sea ; 
Say,  wilt  thou  think  of  Eldred's  wo? 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  ? 

Wore  had  he  spoke,  but  whelmed  in  grief, 

The  briny  tears  'gan  flow ; 
Nor  Isabel  could  give  relief, 

For  theirs  was  mutual  wo. 

Alas !  he  cried  at  length,  I  go 

All  o'er  the  faithless  sea ; 
Think  oft,  dear  maid,  of  Eldred's  wo, 

And  ah !  remember  me. 

And  much  he  mourned  his  sad  remove, 
And  mourned  the  treacherous  sea, 

And  much  he  questioned  his  love,— 
Say,  wilt  thou  think  on  me  ? 

With  many  a  tender  parting  kiss, 

And  many  a  fond  farewell, 
He  left  her. — Sorrow  worse  than  this 

Sure  mortal  ne'er  befell. 


< 


97 

He  mounted  then  his  steed,  and  straight 

To  Thamys'  side  came  he : 
A  gallant  vessel  there  did  wait, 

To  wail  him  o'er  the  sea. 

Yet  ever  as  the  bark  him  bore 

From  his  dear  native  land; 
And  ever  as  he  wandered  sore 

Upon  a  foreign  strand ; 

And  ever  as  he  toiled  by  day, 
And  sought  his  couch  at  night; 

The  image  of  his  love  did  stay, 
All  fresh  before  his  sight* 

Bethink  ye  to  what  huge  wo, 

The  tidings  did  him  rouse, 
That  Isabel  had  proved  untrue, 

And  faithless  to  her  vows. 

Ah  me !  he  cried,  this  cruel  stroke 
A  deathful  blow  will  be ;  "* 

Oh  Isabel !  my  heart  is  broke ; 
But  still  remember  me. 


0 


98 

Within  his  bosom  preyed  the  flame  j 
He  loathed  his  vital  breath ; 

And  when  the  evening  shadow  came, 
He  closed  his  eyes  in  death. 

Oft  did  his  friends  to  see  him,  burn ; 

And  oft  his  absence  mourned ;     ' 
And  oft  inquired  for  his  return : 

But  ah !  he  ne'er  returned— 
Save  that  at  midnight's  awful  hour, 

Before  his  Is'bel's  eyes, 
With  darkened  brow,  and  many  a  lour, 

His  ghost  was  seen  to  rise. 

It  grieved  her  tender  heart  full  sore ; 

She  withered  in  her  bloom ; 
And  fell  remorse  the  maid  soon  bore 

To  an  untimely  tomb. 

Now  God  grant  every  lover's  prayer, 
Whose  heart  is  just  and  true ; 

And  may  his  lady-love  be  fair, 
And  kind,  and  constant  too. 


99 


And  when  the  bard,  by  fates  unkind, 
Must  cross  the  dangerous  sea ; 

May  his  sweet  maid  bear  long  in  mind 
This — ah !  remember  me. 


SWEET  POLL.  OF  PLYMOUTH'S  LAMENT, 

Oh  William !  dearest  William !  hear, '' 
, '  While  yet  the  ship  is  nigh : 
For  you  shall  drop  my  latest  tear, 

My  latest  breath  shall  sigh, 

. 

But  oh  !  come  back !  oh  hear  but  this, 

Ere  you  forever  go  j 
I  gave  not  half  my  parting  kiss ; 

I  told  not  half  my  wo. 

Oh !  would  some  kind  head  winds  arise, 

To  drive  you  back  from  sea ; 
But  ah !  the  billows  mock  my  cries, 

And  winds  are  deaf  to  me. 


100 

* 
And  will  you,  will  you  ne'er  return? 

Oh  William !  say  you  will ; 
And  must  your  Poll  forever  mourn? 

Must  she  be  wretched  still? 

Ye  cruel,  ye  unfeeling  men, 

Who  force  the  youth  to  sea : 
Oh !  will  you  ne'er  return  again, 

My  love,  my  all,  to  me  ? 

Ye  know  not  with  what  anguish,  parts 
From  his  fond  mate,  the  dove; 

For  ye,  base  men,  have  tiger  hearts, 
And  know  not  how  to  love. 

And  though  beneath  the  green  sea,  deep, 

I  would  ye  whelmed  were: 
Still  may  kind  Heaven  protect  your  ship, 

For  ah !  my  all  is  there. 

But  oh  1  she  flies — the  vessel  flies 

Beyond  the  reach  of  call : 
I  hear  not  now  the  moans,  the  sighs. 

Nor  see  the  tears  that  fall. 


101 

Still  on  the  deck  I  see  him  stand, 

His  flying  kerchief  see : 
I  see  him  kiss  his  lovely  hand, 

And  wave  the  kiss  to  me. 

Farewell,  forever !  oh  farewell  \ 
Adieu !  thou  best  of  men — 

Here  closed  her  eyes ;  the  mourner  fell, 
And  ne'er  awaked  again. 

But  oft  the  love-lorn  sailor  gives 
The  mournful  story  ton<rue ; 

And  still,  sweet  Poll  of  Plymouth  lives, 
In  melancholy  song. 


TO   AMANDA, 

FROM  me,  dear  maid,  one  faithful  verse. receive, 
The  last  sad  offering  that  a  wretch  can  give ; 
Warm  from  that  heart,  decreed  by  IJeaven  to  prove, 
The  sad  experience  of  too  great  a  love. 

When  first,  Amanda,  with  your  friendship  blest, 
Your  form,  too  lovely,  all  my  soul  possest ; 


9* 


102 

Tho'  sweet  the  hours,  how  swift  the  minutes  flew, 
While  pleased  I  sat  and  fondly  gazed  on  you. 
Ah !  how  I  listened  when  your  silence  broke, 
And  kissed  the  air  which  trembled  as  you  spoke : 
Did  you  not,  dearest,  see  my  fond  distress, 
Beyond  all  power  of  language  to  express  ? 
Did  not  my  soul  betray  the  young  disease, 
The  softened  look,  the  tender  wish  to  please  ? 
To  soothe  your  cares,  when  all  in  vain  I  strove, 
Did  not  each  action  speak  increase  of  love  ? 

JTis  done !— but  ah !  how  wretched  must  I  be ; 
That  lovely  bosom  heaves  no  sigh  for  me ; 
For  me,  that  heart  with  no  warm  passion  glows, 
Nor  my  Amanda  one  soft  word  bestows : 
But  could  she  see  the  anguish  of  my  heart, 
And  view  the  tumults  that  her  charms  impart ; 
Could  she  but  read  the  sorrows  of  my  mind, 
She  sure  would  pity,  for  she  must  be  kind. 

Ah !  what  avails,  dear  maid,  to  souls  like  mine, 
That  generous  friendship  is  your  sweet  design  ? 
The  pleasing  thought,  with  rapture,  I  pursue, 
It  must  be  lovely,  for  it  comes  from  you. 
But  oh !  how  vain  is  friendship  to  repress 
The  soul-felt  pang  of  exquisite  distress. 
How  small  the  balm,  by  friendship  you  impart, 
To  die  sharp  tortures  of  the  impassioned  heart. 


103 

What  tender  wish,  for  you  alone  to  live, 
Could  once  each  dear  deluding  moment  give? 
When  every  look,  bewitching  as  'twas  fair, 
Seized  all  my  heart,  and  played  the  tyrant  there. 
How  did  those  eyes  with  softened  lustre  shine, 
Thought  unexpressed,  and  sympathy  divine  I 
While  still  the  hope  within  my  bosom  grew — 
Vain  hope ! — to  live  for  happiness  and  you. 

'Tis  o'er  ! — each  foud,  delusive  hope  is  o'er, 
And  ne'er  may  Arouet  see  Amanda  more. 
Some  happier  swain  has  taught  her  breast  to  glow, 
But  who  can  soothe  the  wretched  Arouct's  wo  ? 
Whole  months,  whole  ages,  absent  to  remain, 
Who  can  support  the  agonizing  pain  ? 
Say,  dearest  maid,  will  you  not  give  relief, 
By  ono  soft  sigh,  to  such  a  storm  of  giief ; 
When  from  your  sight,  from  your  sweet  converse  torn, 
To  other  climes  your  Arouet  shall  be  borne  ? 
While  far  between,  dear  charmer  of  my  soul ! 
Inconstant  waves  and  cruel  oceans  roll 

Ah  !  think  not  absence  can  aflbrd  a  cure, 
To  the  sharp  woes,  the  sorrows  I  endure : 
Amanda,  no !  'twill  but  augment  distress 
To  such  a  height,  no  mortal  can  express. 
My  soul,  distracted,  still  is  fixed  on  you ; 
Was  ever  heart  so  wretched  and  so  true  ? 


104 

Oh !  «tfy,  shall  selfish  love  my  bosom  fire  1 
Shall  you  reluctant  meet  my  fond  desire? 
If  that  dear  heart  has  vowed  eternal  truth 
To  some  ble|J  swain,  some  more  engaging  youth ; 
Forgive  the  thought,  dear  angel  of  my  breast, 
I  must  be  wretched— *>h !  may  you  be  blest 

Yes,  may  the  youth  to  whom  you  prove  more  kind, 
Know  the  rich  treasures  of  that  lovely  mind : 
May  he  be  fond,  and  may  no  cloud  o'ercast 
The  virtuous  passion,  born  to  ever  last. 
But  though  his  love  in  every  act  may  shine, 
Yet  know,  sweet  maid,  it  cannot  be  like  mine : 
Your  image  never  can  from  me  depart ; 
Fixed  in  my  soul,  and  written  on  my  heart. 


TO   AMANDA, 

ONCE  more,  dear  maid,  the  wretched  Arouet  writes, 

His  pen  obedient,  as  his  heart  indites : 

Such  lines  may  haply  waste  your  precious  tune, 

And  his  loathed  writings  may  be  deemed  a  crime ; 

Yet  Arouet's  tender,  inoffensive  strains, 

May  reach  the  bosom  where  compassion  reigns. 


105 

When  first  I  saw,  adorned  with  every  grace, 
That  heavenly  form,  that  more  than  angel  face, 
I  wished  your  friendship,  but  alas !  the  snare, 
For  ah !  my  woes  originated  there. 

Once  was  I  happy,  blest  with  native  ease, 
A  friend  could  cheer  me,  and  a  book  could  please : 
But  now,  no  more  my  friends,  my  books  bestow 
One  moment's  respite  from  this  load  of  wo ; 
While  cruel  love  my  bosom-peace  destroys, 
Ensnares  my  soul,  and  poisons  all  my  joys. 

Soon  must  to  other  climss  my  course  be  borne, 
Whence  Arouct  never,  never  may  return  : 
For  there,  ah !  long,  too  cruel  lute  detains 
The  wretched  youtli  on  Carolina's  plains— 
There,  while  your  absence  does  my  soul  distress, 
Will  you  not  kindly  wish  my  sorrows  less? 
Will  you  not,  sometimes,  smooth  the  fates'  decree, 
Heave  one  soft  sigh,  and  ah  !  remember  me  ? 

Should  fate,  when  some  few  fleeting  months  are  o'er, 
Again  return  me  to  my  native  shore ; 
Then  should  I  view  some  favorite  of  your  breast, 
(Distracting  thought !)  of  all  your  charms  possest, 
My  fondest  wishes  would  be  late  in  time, 
And  every  hope  would  verge  upon  a  crime : 
But  could  my  heart  a  keener  anguish  prove, 
Than  now,  if  cruel,  you  should  slight  my  love? 


106 

Pure  are  the  passions  from  my  breast  which  flow, 
With  flames  like  these  angelic  bosoms  glow : 
But  if  regardless  of  your  lover's  grief, 
You  cease  to  pity,  and  refuse  relief; 
Should  I  be  doomed  to  feel  your  utmost  hate, 
No  tune  shall  ever  find  my  love  abate  ; 
Should  you  the  heaviest  wrath  on  me  bestow, 
I  bless  your  memory  and  I  kiss  the  blow, 

Death,  friendly  death,  may  soon  relieve  my  pain, 
Long,  sure,  he  cannot  be  implored  in  vain : 
Soon  the  grim  angel  will  restore  my  peace, 
Soothe  my. hard  fate,  and  bid  my  sorrows  cease } 
Will  calm  the  tempest  of  my  soul  to  rest, 
And  tear  Amanda's  image  from  my  breast. 

When  to  my  sight,  the  monarch  of  the  tomb 
Shall  rise  terrific,  and  pronounce  my  doom ; 
When  deep  oblivion  wraps  my  mind  in  night ; 
When  DEATII'S  dark  shadows  swim  before  my  sight; 
Will  then  Amanda? — ah !  she  will,  I  trust, 
Pay  the  last  tribute  to  my  clay-cold  dust ; 
Will,  sighing,  say,  "  There  his  last  scene  is  o'er, 
Who  loved  as  mortal  never  loved  before." 
Dear,  matchless  fair,  that  kind  concern  displayed,        • 
Would  sweetly  soothe  my  melancholy  shade  j 
O'er  my  lone  tomb,  oh !  yield  that  sad  relief ; 
Breathe  that  soft  sigh,  and  pour  out  all  your  grief; 


lot 

Or  Bhed  one  tear  in  pity  as  you  pass, 
And  just  remember  that  your  Arouet  was. 


TO  AMANDA. 

SAT,  sole  directress  of  thy  Arouet's  heart, 
Shall  not  one  line  his  faithful  love  impart? 
Oh !  think,  though  parted  by  the  cruel  main, 
How  much  for  thee  he  suffers  every  pain : 
And  know,  dear  maid,  upon  his  soul  imprest, 
Thy  lovely  image  must  forever  rest. 

When  thou  art  absent,  with  what  long  delay, 
The  sun's  slow  chariot  roll  the  hours  away  I 
But  blest  with  thee,  time  all  too  rapid  plies 
His  flippant  wings,  and  on  the  minute  flies. 

Full  oft  remembrance,  by  her  magic  power, 
Crowds  with  past  scenes  the  visionary  hour: 
When  oh !  'twas  thine,  dear  maid,  to  check  the  sigh 
Of  rising  grief,  and  wipe  the  tear-clad  eye ; 
With  soft  endearments,  such  as  angels  prove, 
We  sighed — and  looked — UNUTTERABLE  LOVE  ! 

Distant  from  thee,  fate  spreads  my  mournful  scene : 
Ah !  cruel  distance — oceans  roll  between. 


108 

But,  love,  I'm  thine,  and  I  appeal  to  thee, 
What  son  of  sorrow  measures  wo  with  me? 
Borne  on  the  stormy  seas,  a  length  of  way, 
From  that  dear  land,  where  'tis  my  heaven  to  stay. 

Though  rigid  censors  term  the  verse  profane, 
Yet  know,  ye  bigots,  this  my  honest  strain ; 
I  deem  not  grateless  to  that  power  above, 
Whose  throne  is  mercy,  and  whose  name  is  LOVE. 


TO   AMANDA, 

WITH   EMMA   COBBETT. 

AMANDA,  view  the  soft  pathetic  lines, 
Where  tender  love  and  glowing  genius  shines ; 
Where  Emma  weeps ;  where  hapless  Henry  draws 
The  heart-felt  tear,  in  love  and  virtue's  cause. 

Yes,  Emma  weeps  !^— behold  her  sorrows  rise ; 
View  the  dear  dew-drops  trembling  in  her  eyes : 
See !  round  her  Henry's  corse  the  mourner  moves ; 
She  dies — the  martyr  of  unhappy  loves. 


• 


100 

« 

So  the  poor  turtle,  desolate,  and  lone, 
Breathes  to  the  winds  his  melancholy  moan ; 
Mourns  his  lost  dove,  with  many  a  plaintive  coo, 
And  sighs  his  soul  out  with  the  fond  adieu. 

Amanda,  say,  by  such  sad  scenes  impressed, 
What  gloom  pervades  the  sorrow-teeming  breast ! 
How  weeps  the  soul !  what  sighs  the  bosom  swell  I 
Speak,  angel-softness,  for  thou  best  canst  tell. 

Here,  oft  thy  Arouet's  manly  bosom  glows, 
And  the  soft  tear  all  sympathetic  flows : 
Full  oft  for  Emma,  lovely  maid,  distressed, 
His  tender  heart-strings  vibrate  in  his  breast ; 
For  Henry,  oft  the  bursting  sighs  give  place, 
And  the  soul  melts  on  his  impassioned  face. 

But  while  embosomed  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
,      Increasing  wo  on  every  side  appears; 
If  right  the  bard,  Amanda,  can  divine, 
Fair,  happiness  shall  be  forever  thine. 

The  indulgent  care  of  Providence  shall  bless 
Thy  lovely  .mind,  and  ward  off  keen  distress ; 
Joy  shall  beam  on  thee  with  her  sunshine  ray, 
And  peace  eternal  gild  thy  happy  day. 
10 


110 


TO   AMANDA. 

''\  '    '  • 

, 

THE    WISH. 

COME,  gentle  love,  whose'  smiling  form  inspires 
Sweet,  painful  throbs,  and  languishing  desires ; 
Come,  thou  soft  power,  who,  with  Amanda's  charms, 
My  soul  enraptures,  and  my  bosom  warms ; 
Who  bids  the  fair,  unconscious  of  her  art, 
Reign  in  the  pulse,  which  flutters  at  my  heart, 
When  active  fancy  to  my  mind  supplies 
The  absent  object  of  my  bosom  sighs. 
For  whom,  I  quit  the  academic  lore, 
And  shun  that  laurel  which  I  loved  before ; 
For  whose  idea  all  my  youth  decays 
In  sleepless  nights,  and  unamusin^  days : 
Dear,  matchless  maid !  too  true,  if  torn  from  thee, 
Not  one  amusement  bears  a  charm  for  me. 
Come,  gentle  love,  and  to  my  wishes  give 
•  The  angelic  fair,  for  whom  alone  I  live : 
Bring  her  all  beauteous  to  my  longing  arms, 
In  sweet  confusion,  and  a  heaven  of  charms ; 
While  o'er  my  frame  the  unwonted  tremor  glides, 
And  the  warm  spirits  flash  in  crimson  tides ; 


Ill 

t 

While  the  deep  blush,  and  treacherous  sighs  betray 

The  bounding  heart,  the  pulses'  maddening  play ; 

While  the  breast  heaves,  by  laboring  passions  shook. 

And  the  soul  flies  with  every  eager  look, 

*•  Lapped  in  Elysium"  by  the  impassioned  kiss, 

And  all  dissolved  in  extasies  of  bliss. 

Hear  me,  great  love ;  and  hear,  indulgent  Heaven, 

If  to!  my  Vows  the  charming  maid  be  given, 

For  her  alone  your  smiles  will  I  implore, . 

Be  these  her  virtues,  and  I  ask  no  more : 

With  mental  charms,  by  beauty's  aid,  to  move 

The  heart  to  raptures,  and  the  soul  to  love ; 

Of  gentle  mind,  with  tears  inured  to  flow 

At  others'  ills,  and  melt  at  others'  wo ; 

Oh !  be  it  hers,  in  exquisite  employ, 

To  share  each  grief,  and  double  every  joy  j 

Be  hers  the  pleasure  of  the  rural  grove, 

Sweet  fields  of  science  which  the  muses'  love  j 

Good  nature  hers,  and  hers  let  judgment  be, 

With  depth  of  sense,  and  sprightly  repartee. 

But  let  not  fortune,  with  officious  claim, 
Debar  my  bliss,  and  disappoint  my  flame  j 
Let  vulgar  souls  the  charms  of  riches  prove, 
A  nobler  right  be  mine,  the  right  of  love. 

I'd  sooner  clasp  a  beggar  to  my  arms, 
Of  youthful  beauty  and  persuasive  charms, 


112 

Than  wed  the  fair,  with  wealth  alone,  to  prove 
The  base  enjoyments  of  a  sordid  love. 

Yes,  sweet  Amanda,  if  denied  thy  heart, 
The  wealth  of  kingdoms  would  no  bliss  impart : 
Thy  love  alone  exceeds  the  utmost  store, 
Thy  Arouet  asks  it,  and  he  asks  NO  MORE. 


TO   AMANDA, 


THE  FAREWELL. 
BARD. 

AH !  why  that  sigh?  and  why  that  falling  tear/ 
And  whence  comes  mournful  melancholy  here  7 
Sweet  maid !  these  tears  are  yours; these  sweUingsighs 
For  you,  dear  maid !  in  my  pained  bosom  rise. 
Ah !  could  you,  could  you  read  my  constant  mind, 
View  all  the  sorrows  of  my  soul  combined, 
The  ceaseless  tortures  of  a  faithful  heart, 
Which  speak  too  plainly,  that — 'tis  death  to  part ; 
Sure,  lovely  maid !  your  tender  soul  would  join 
Sighs  to  my  sighs,  and  mingle  tears  with  mine. 


113 


FRIEND. 

Ah !  why  that  sigh?  and  why  that  falling  t 
And  whence  comes  mournful  melancholy  hen 
What  cause  of  sorrow  wakes  the  tender  strai 
Why  should  the  bard  of  solitude  complain? 
Why  strive  by  power  of  language  to  expre 
The  soul-felt  pang  of  exquisite  distress  ? 
Do  not  thy  friends  their  sympathy  impf 
With  anxious,  warm  solicitude  of  heai 
Nor  Heaven  smile  on  thee  with  the  sjnme  ray 
Of  promised  bliss? — oh,  bard  of  sor7  *  **?' 

BARD. 

Heaven  smiles  on  all  below ;  ^  liberal  **"* 
Pours  from  its  source  in  an  unv1"6^  slream  » 
O'er  all  the  earth  the  blessing  confest, 
To  lift  the  low,  and  succor  0  distrest : 
But  lost  to  me  each  cheerful  aPI**1*' 
And  blind  I  wander  throu^  this  ^ale  of  tears' 
Oh,  ye  fond  youths  !  wh'e  trembling  hearts  have 

proved 

Commutual  warmth,  living  and  beloved : 
If  by  the  pangs  of  section  torn, 
Your  sweet  associate  you  in  absence  mourn ; 
How  weep  your  soi* !  what  sighs  each  bosom  swell ! 
Speak,  absent  lovers,  you  alone  can  tell ; 
1  10* 


- 


114 


For  you  alone,  by  sad  experience,  know 
The  bursting  heart,  the  agony  of  wo. 

Hear  you  that  note?    The  tender  cooing  dove 
Breathes  the  sad  lay,  in  absence  from  his  love : 
Amanda  absent,  shall  not  I  complain, 
When  the  soul  saddens,  and  when  life  is  pain  ? 
Amanda  absent,  can  the  world  impart 
One  glimmering  ray,  to  illuminate  the  heart'/ 
No ;  every  scene  the  face  of  sadness  wears, 
And  the  whole  earth  one  wilderness  appears  : 
Unchanged,  t\ie  soul  each  varying  prospect  proves, 
Through  peopled  cities,  or  through  savage  groves ; 
And  breathes  her  sad,  her  melancholy  moan, 
Midst  gathered  crowds  all  desolate  and  lone. 
Dark  o'er  the  mind  invasive  sorrows  spread  ; 
I  start*  I  turn,  and  tremble  at  each  tread ; 
And  oft  my  eyes,  with  eager  longings  rove, 
To  the  dear  mansion  where  resides  my  love ; 
Slow  the  sen's  chariot  rolls  the  hours  away, 
And  each  sad  minute  lengthens  to  a  day. 
Now  all  in  vain  I  seek  for  Stoic  ease ; 
No  Plato  now,  no  Seneca  ean  please : 
Yet  midst  this  dismal  solitary  gloom, 
Come  to  my  soul,  oh  resignation !  come 
Calm  fortitude !  to  combat  every  grief; 
And  come,  oh  virtue !  come  to  my  relief: 


115 


Once  you  could  lull  my  woes,  and  soothe  each  pain, 
Must  now  your  Arouet  ask  for  aid  in  vain? 
No  j  the  blest  shadows,  all  divinely  bright, 
All  clothed  in  sunshine,  court  my  mental  sight ; 
Divine  contentment,  virtue,  ever  fair, 
Sweet  hope,  and  loved  philosophy  is  there : 
O'er  all  my  soul  they  beam  celestial  rays, 
And  bid  their  poet  wish  for  happy  days. 


TO   AMANDA. 


ABSENCE. 


SAY,  my  dear  maid,  can  nought  express, 
The  pain  a  tender  bosom  proves ; 

Or  speak  a  doating  youth's  distress, 
When  absent  from  the  maid  he  loves. 

Can  language  breathe  his  many  sighs, 
Amanda  ? — no !  all  words  are  vain : 

The  experienced  son  of  sorrow  cries, 
To  speak  an  absent  lover's  pain. 


• 


116 

Wilt  thou  not  weep,  by  pity  moved  ? 

Responsive  as  my  sorrow  rolls ; 
Wilt  thou  not  say,  oh !  best  beloved, 

That  absence  is  the  death  of  souls? 

Yet  cease,  Amanda !  cease  to  mourn ; 

For  happier  days  great  Heaven  will  give 
Thy  absent  Arouet  shall  return, 

And  blest  in  meeting,  both  shall  live. 


TO   AMANDA. 
IN  ANSWER  TO  "  WHY  I  LOVE  1" 

FAIR  as  thou  art— possessed  of  every  charm, 
Which  e'en  the  breast  of  frozen  age  might  warm ; 
Decked  as  thou  art  with  every  matchless  grace, 
Of  pleasing  form,  and  of  bewitching  face ; . 
Although  to  me  thy  beauties  matchless  are, 
Yet  not  alone,  thus  charming,  and  thus  fair, 
Yet  not  alone  should  these  externals  fire, 
And  fill  my  bosom  with  such  pure  desire ! 
Possessed  of  these  alone,  you  could  not  move 
My  faithful  heart  to  such  excessive  love ; 


117 

A  flame  for  you  would  not  thus  fire  my  soul, 
Nor  thus  its  every  faculty  control ! 
Those  charms  which  will  exist  when  these  decay, 
Which  long  will  bloom  when  these  have  died  away ; 
Those  charms  which  beautify  the  nobler  part, 
Which  shine,  fair  maid !  which  centre  at  your  heart  j 
Those  are  the  charms  which  captivate  my  mind ; 
^Those  are  the  charms  which  my  affections  bind ; 
Those  are  the  charms  by  which  you  reign  confessed 
Unrivalled  empress  of  this  honest  breast ! 


ODE   TO   LOVE. 

"  SAY,  love,  why  with  such  pleasing  smart, 
Such  painful  bliss,  you  throb  the  heart? 
Why  do  such  different  feelings  join 
To  move  a  soul  so  frail  as  mine? 
Say,  why  AMANDA'S  charms  molest, 
And  raise  such  tumults  in  my  breast  ? 
Why  at  her  sight  my  pulses  swell ; 
My  refluent  blood  in  tides  rebel ; 
My  bounding  heart  unruly  beat, 
And  throb  succeeding  throb  repeat ; 


118 

My  breast  alternate  fall  and  rise ; 

My  breath  grow  short,  sighs  following  sighs ; 

My  every  feature  speak  desire ; 

My  frame  by  sudden  tremor  shook ; 
I  almost  faint,  almost  expire. 

And  send  my  soul  at  every  look  ? 
Kind,  gentle  god,  the  cause  explain ; 
Relieve  my  doubts,  and  ease  my  pain." 

One  day,  as  o'er  the  flowery  mead, 
I  with  a  brother  poet  strayed, 
Thus  to  the  god  of  love  I  cried; 
And  thus  love's  gentle  god  replied : 

"  Oh  heaven-loved  youth !  celestial  bard ! 
Thy  woes  are  known,  thy  plaints  are  heard ; 
Well  canst  thou  soar  on  venturous  wing, 
For  thee  the  gods  have  taught  to  sing ; 
But  to  no  purpose  wouldst  thou  know, 
Why  thy  AMANDA  moves  thee  so, 
Since  smiling  heavens  thy  bliss  ordain, 
The  fair  shall  burn  with  equal  pain : 
Nor  shalt  thou  make  thy  plaintive  moan, 
Of  love-lorn  misery  alone." 


• 
i 


119 

He  drew  the  bow,  unknown  to  save, 
And  pierced  my  sweet  AMANDA'S  breast : 

The  pain  that  fated  arrow  gave, 
In  sweet  relief,  her  lover  blessed. 


E  L  E  G  Yj 
SACRED   TO   THE   MEMORY   OP   PHILANDER,. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BAINY  TEMPESTUOUS  HORNING. 

Lo !  clouds  on  clouds,  obsequious  to  the  blast, 
With  spreading  gloom  the  face  of  heaven  o'ercast ; 
Down  pours  the  rain ;  and  thirsty  earth  receives 
The  humid  burden,  pattering  from  the  eaves ;      , 
Whilst  her  dark  wing,  black  melancholy  spreads 
O'er  every  joy,  and  wraps  the  mind  in  shades. 

Come,heaven-born  muse,for  tragic  sweetness  known, 
Where  high  thou  shadowest  thy  cerulean  throne ; 
In  this  dark  hour,  to  lend  thy  votary  aid, 
From  brighter  realms  descend,  celestial  maid : 
Since  none  like  thee,  among  the  tuneful  nine, 
Can  melt  the  soul  in  sympathy  divine ; 


120 

Since  none  like  thee,  beyond  the  grave  can  give, 

The  poet's  or  the  patriot's  name  to  live: 

Lo !  raised  by  thee,  the  mounting  bard  would  soar 

Beyond  all  view—sublime  in  tragic  lore ! 

Oh,  come !  the  great,  immortal  thought  inspire, 

That  every  line  may  glow  with  native  fire: 

Then  whilst  I  sing,  forever  sacred  be 

The  lays,  Philander. !  for  I  sing  of  thee : 

Thee,  with  dire  frowns,  the  ruthless  fates  beheld, 

•When  o'er  thy  bark  the  bellying  canvas  swelled ; 

Consigned  by  them,  Britannia's  sous  enslave 

Those  free-born  youths,  who  press  the  Atlantic  wave, 

Oh  !  could  I  fall,  the  undaunted  brave  might  say, 
In  arms  of  conquest,  and  the  face  of  day ; 
Could  I  expire,  the  peaceful  swain  might  cry, 
My  friends  around  me,  all  my  kindred  by : 
Then  would  grim  death  his  friendliest  aspect  wear, 
Nor  all  his  terrors  shake  my  soul  with  fear, 

But  ah  !  Philander  no  such  blessing  knew ; 
No  weeping  kindred  took  their  last  adieu  : 
All  unbemoaned  the  aerial  spirit  flies, 
And  swift  revisits  its  paternal  skies. 

When  the  tall  oak,  amidst  tempestuous  gloom, 
From  heaven's  own  thunder  shades  the  lowly  broom ; 
If  o'er  its  head  the  vivid  lightnings  burst,  1 

Rive  the  big  trunk,  and  level  it  with  dust, 


121 

Each  shrub  laments  the  fall :  and  full  in  view, 
A  mournful  chasm  tells  them  where  it  grew. 
So  fell  Philander ;  and  where  once  he  stood, 
We  long  shall  mourn  the  generous  and  the  good. 

Ye  sons  of  Paean,*  by  your  parent  led, 
Weep  round  his  grave,  and  mourn  your  brother  dead. 
Like  you,  he  once  approached,  with  sweet  relief, 
.    The  house  of  sickness,  the  abode  of  grief; 
With  generous  ardor,  striving  to  impart 
The  heavenly  blessings  of  the  healing  art. 

With  no  rash  tread,  ye  passers-by,  presume 
To  print  the  ashes  on  Philanders  tomb ; 
But,  ever  sacred,  may  the  lone  retreat 
Be  solitude's  supremely  awful  seat ; 
Round  all  the  place  may  mournful  cypress  grow, 
And  death's  dread  angel  keep  his  charge  below. 

*  Physicians. 


11 


122 


V    ELEGY, 

riACBED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MAJOR  BENJAMIN  IIUGEU. 

•  '  .  .   .  ' 

ENROLLED  among  the  mighty  dead, 
Where  honor  points  the  trophied  grave; 

And  virtue  bends  the  pensive  head  ; 
Sweet  is  the  memory  of  the  brave. 

There  friendship  breathes  the  sigh  sincere, 
And  freedom  with  disheveled  hair, 

Bedews  the  turf  with  many  a  tear, 
While  sorrow's  dew-drops  mingle  there.  • 

But,  pensive  bard !  oh,  poet !  say — 

Columbia's  weeping  genius  cries — 
Does  not  yon  sod,  which  skirts  the  way, 
.    Mark  the  lone  spot  where  HUCER  lies? 

There  melancholy  loves  to  dwell, 
And  pale- eyed  grief  forever  weeps ; 

She  roams  but  where  my  HUGER  fell, 
And  lives  but  where  the  warrior  sleeps. 


123 

While  bardsj  his  virtues  to  relate,   . 
Awake  the  symphony  of  songs ; 
.  Each  sad  remembrance  of  his  fate 

The  melancholy  verse  prolongs. 

»  '  • 

}Tis  done :  and  ah !  resign  we  must : 
In  peace,  dear  shade,  forever  rest ; 

Nor  ever  may  thy  sacred  dust 
Be  by  unhallowed  steps  imprest 


The  friends,  who  loved  him  here  below, 
And  still  enraptured  spread  his  fame, 

Have  bid  these  Hues  of  sorrow  ilow, 
In  sweet  remembrance  of  his  name. 

On  what  great  springs  his  spirit  moved, 
Let  those,  with  tears,  who  knew  him,  tell ; 

He  lived,  and  he  was  all  beloved ; 
He  died,  and  all  lamented,  fell. 


124  ; 

ii 
'i 

MONODY, 

TO  TUB  MEMORY  OF  AN  UNFORTUNATE  YOUNG  LADY- 

• 

Aii  me  i  she  spoke :  did  not  Almena  say, 
Come,  Arouet,  come,  my  much-loved  youth,  away  ? 
Did  she  not  seem  to  court  me  from  the  place, 
While  smiles  angelic  beamed  upon  her  face? 
Dear  shade,  accept  the  tribute  of  this  tear, 
While  to  my  soul  thy  memory  shall  be  dear ; 
Still  in  my  griefs  thy  idea  shall  have  part, 
And  hold  a  place  superior  in  my  heart- 
See  what  thick  gloom  the  sable  evening  shrouds  : 
No  meteor  trembles  through  the  night  of  clouds ; 
In  sleep's  soft  arms,  surrounding  nature  lies, 
Me,  me  alone,  the  envied  blessing  flies ; 
The  night,  the  silence,  but  augments  my  wo, 
While  streaming  tears  in  ceaseless  torrents  flow. 

Ah  !  why  did  I  behold,  with  raptured  eyes, 
The  early  dawn  of  glowing  genius  rise  ? 
When  fair  Almena  strove  the  soul  to  gain, 
And  nature  listened  to  the  pleasing  strain : 


125 

Oh !  much  'twas  hers  the  flbsom  to  inspire 
With  heaven-bred  warmth,  and  fill  the  mind  with  fire; 
To  melt1  the  soul,  and  bid  our  sorrows  flow 
To  the  soft  tale  of  heavenly-pensive  wo. 

No  more  the  music  of  thy  voice  we  hear ; 
No  more  thy  strains  command  the  falling  tear ; 
But  the  stern  monarch  of  the  silent  tomb 
Shades  all  thy  beauties  in  funereal  gloom. 
1  Ah !  what  availed  that  thy  superior  mind, 
In  its  first  dawn,  with  glowing  lustre  shiued ; 
That  thy  loved  form  by  heaven  was  taught  to  please 
With  native  charms,  serenity,  and  ease?. 
Since  nought,  dear  maid,  could  all  that  sweetness  save 
From  the  dark  angel  of  the  gloomy  grave. 

How  fair  thy  beauties  met  the  early  dawn ! 
The  sun  beheld  them  glorious  in  the  morn ; 
But  e'er  his  beams  had  pierced  the  noontide  shade, 
On  earth's  cold  lap  the  withered  rose  was  laid : 
Almena  fell,  and  o'er  the  lovely  dead, 
Her  shadowy  vail  the  silent  mansion  spread. 

Come,  kindly  cruel  fate,  relieve  my  breast, 
And  lull  my  sorrows  to  eternal  rest ; 
In  yon  lone  tornb,  beneath  the  foliage  deep, 
The  loved  Almena  and  myself  may  sleep. 
May  pale-eyed  sorrow  consecrate  the  seat, 
And  there  the  angel  of  the  grave  retreat ; 
11* 


126 


While  no  rash  foot  disturbs,  with  impious  tread, 
The  sacred  ashes  of  the  silent  dead. 


AYDER   ALL 

SEE  Ayder,  at  his  armies'  head, 
Bend  o'er  the  field  where  nations  bled ; 
The  bloody  fates  his  ensign  bore, 
And  rivers  foamed  with  human  gore. 

Behold,  like  death,  within  his  hand, 
The  fatal  sword  that  drenched  the  land ! 
JTis  thirsty  still  for  warriors'  blood, 
And  longs  to  drink  the  vital  flood. 

All  bathed  in  gore,  untaught  to  yield, 
The  chieftain  thunders  through  the  field ; 
An&  swift  impels,  with  fatal  force, 
O'er  heaps  of  death,  his  foaming  horse ! 

Where'er  his  sword  the  warrior  waved,    . 
With  carnage  all  the  field  was  laved ; 
And  where  his  deathful  armies  stood, 
The  plains  around  them  swam  in  blood. 


127 

Hark !  heard  you  not  the  horrid  moan, 
That  dismal,  universal  groan  ? 
The  death  of  nations  echoed  round, 
And  dying  millions  graced  the  sound. 

Yet,  while  thy  swift  successes  fly, 

Oh,  Ayder !  think  thyself  must  die  : 

And  India,  weltering  in  her  gore, 

Shall  bless  her  gods,  when  (hou'rt  no  more. 


WHAT   IS    HAPPINESS? 

'Tis  an  empty,  fleeting  shade, 

By  imagination  made ; 

'Tis  a  bubble,  straw,  or  worse ; 

'Tis  a  baby's  hobby-horse ; 

'Tis  a  little  li ving,  clear ; 

'Tis  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year ; 

'Tis  a  title ;  'tis  a  name ; 

'Tis  a  puff  of  empty  fame, 

Fickle  as  the  breezes  blow  j 

'Tis  a  lady's  YES  or  NO  : 

And  when  the  description's  crowned, 

'Tis  just  no  where  to  be  found. 


128 

' 


•  *  ; 


FABLE. 

WHEN  Homer  wrote,  as  scholiasts  say, 
BATRAKOMUOMACHIA, 

Hoarse  frogs,  a  warlike  race,  were  then 
Immortalized  by  Homer's  pen : 
There  MERIDARPAX  shines  in  fame, 
His  javelins  flash,  his  eyeballs  flame; 
His  voice  shakes  all  the  region  round,   . 
And  hills  reverberate  the  sound. 
There  PELIUS  too,  terrific  frog, 
All  dire  emerges  from  the  bog, 
Gloomy  as  night ;  the  mice  he  dares, 
And  lo !  the  great  PSYCARPAX  fears. 

Such  mighty  deeds  were  done ;  and  more, 
By  mighty  frogs  in  days  of  yore : 
Tlxey  then  achieved  such  deeds  of  might, 
As  Homer  did  not  scorn  to  write. 
But  bards  no  longer  deign  to  praise 
The  frogs  of  our  degenerate  days ; 
Though  in  old  ^Esop's  happy  time, 
When  beasts  could  talk,  and  birds  could  rhyme, 
There  lived  a  frog,  whose  mighty  name 
Deserves  an  everlasting  fame, 


129 

He,  with  great  ambition  fired, 
By  more  than  all  the  frog  inspired, 
Beholds  the  bulky  oxen  feed, 
And  emulates  the  horny  breed : 
At  once,  he  spurns  his  native  floods, 
Resolved  to  graze  and  dwell  in  woods. 
Thus  while  he  meditates  the  scheme, 
Each  feature  swells ;  swells  every  limb ; 
And  now,  almost  an  ox  he  rears, 
His  fancied  horns  protrude  his  ears ;     • 
Already  scorns  his  brother  frog, 
And  stalks  indignant  o'er  the  bog. 

But  Jove  looked  wrathful  down,  'tis  said, 
To  see  the  boaster's  vain  parade  j 
Then  this  dread  fiat  thundered  wide : 
"  Yonfwg  shall  perish  for  his  pride" 

But  him  nor  thunders  can  control, 
Nor  tempests  shake  his  steady  soul ; 
Lo  !  struggling  into  bulk  he  seems, 
Transported  at  his  growing  limbs ; 
When — so  decrees  resistless  fate, 
And  such  the  let  attends  the  great — 
The  sinewy  nerves,  o'erstraiued,  divide ; 
His  fabric  burst ;  his  frogship  died. 

Insulted  by  his  late  disdain, 
The  frogs  in  thousands  crowd  the  plain, 


130 


Entomb  the  wretch,  with  scornful  laugh 
And  o'er  him  raise  this  epitaph : 
"Such  fates  on  VANITY  attend, 
And  so  shall  PRIDE  forever  end." 


EPITAPH   ON   AN   OLD   HORSE. 

LET  no  facetious  mortal  laugh, 
To  see  a  horse's  epitaph ; 
.Lest  some  old  steed,  with  saucy  phiz, 
Should  have  the  sense  to  laugh  at  his, 
As  well  he  might  j  for  prove  we  can 
The  courser  equal  to  the  man. 

The  horse  was  of  supreme  degree ; 
At  least,  no  common  steed  was  he ; 
He  scorned  the  tricks  of  sly  trepanners, 
And  ne'er  a  horse  had  better  manners  j 
He  scorned  to  tell  a  lie,  or  mince 
His  words,  by  clipping  half  their  sense ; 
But  if  he  meant  to  show  you  why, 
He'd  out  with't,  let  who  would  be  by. 
And  (how  can  man  the  blush  restrain?) 
Ne'er  took  his  Maker's  name  in  vain ! 


.    \. 
* ' 


131 

A  better  servant)  horse  was  never ; 
His  master  owned  that  he  was  clever : 
Then  to  his  equals  all  obliging, 
To  his  inferiors  quite  engaging ;  • 
A  better  Christian  too,  I  trow, 
Than  some  denominated  so. 
In  him  we  the  good  father  find,         . :. 
The  duteous  son,  the  husband  kind  j 
The  friend  sincere—though  not  to  brag, 
The  honest,  and  well-meaning  nag. 

Then  let  those  fools  who  vaiuly  laugh, 
To  see  a  horse's  epitaph, 
Go  grope  among  the  HUMAN  DUST, 
And  find  an  epitaph  more  just. '  . 


THE    HAPPY   MAN, 

TO  HORATIO. 

BLEST  with  the  joys  impassioned  fathers  know, 
And  all  that  Heaven  could  in  a  wife  bestow : 
A  wife  endea.ad  to  that  congenial  breast; 
In  three  sweet  prattlers  most  supremely  blest. 


132 

Blest  with  enjoyments  that  on  wealth  attend, 
And  blest  by  Heaven  with  many  a  social  friend ; 
In  calm  delight,  whose  ever-smiling  rays, 
Spread  a  sweet  sunshine  o'er  thy  happy  days : 
And  blest  to  know,  that  high  enrolled  in  fame, 
Ages  shall  love  and  venerate  thy  name. 
To  every  friend  thy  memory  dear  shall  be, 
And  sweet  the  song  be,  when  they  sing  of  thee. 
Oh !  read  this  verse,  where  blessings  all  combine, 
And  view  thyself- in  each  descriptive  line. 


THE   SORROWS   OP    CHARLOTTE   AT   THE 
TOMB   OF   WERTER, 

HERE,  fond,  impassioned  Werter  lies ; 

Dear  youth  too  soon  removed : 
His  mind  was  firm ;  his  soul  was  wise ; 

But  fatally  he  loved. 

Ah,  Werter !  why  was  that  dear  mind, 

By  lawless,  passion  swayed  ? 
And  why  that  heart  to  me  confined, 

Formed  for  some  happier  maid  ? 


'  »         »-.,,-/  133 

Alas  1  the  dead  no  answer  make ; 

All  silent  is  the  tomb; 
Yet,  Werter,  for  thy  passion's  sake, 

To  thy  sad  grave  I  come. 

The  breezes  sleep ;  the  storms  are  laid ; 

Calm,  silent  is  the  air  ; 
A  light  gleams  dimly  o'er  the  glade ; 

The  moonbeam  trembles  there. 

Before  my  view,  the  forms  of  night, 

Their  awful  revels  keep ; 
Around  me,  by  the  pale  moonlight, 

Thin  airy  phantoms  sweep. 


Here,  by  the  sad  and  silent  tomb, 
I  breathe  my  plaintive  moan ; 

Or  through  the  midnight's  horrid  gloom, 
Wandering,  I  weep  alone. 

Ha !  didst  thou  call  ?  the  voice  was  nigh ! 

I  heard  the  feeble  shriek  ! 
'Twas  on  the  blast !  'tis  Werter -s  cry ! 

Again,  oh  spirit !  speak. 


12 


134 

Wei  ter !  I  come ;  I  come  to  thee ; 

Receive  me,  realms  above : 
From  earth,  from  vanity  I  flee ; 

I  flee  to  meet  my  love. 


THE   DEATH    OF   WERTER. 

AND  say,  did  CHARLOTTE'S  hand  these  pistols  give? 

Come,  ye  dear  pledges,  sacred  to  my  love; 
Since  given  by  her,  'twould  be  a  crime  to  live ; 

No :  come,  ye  pistols ;  all  your  death  I  prove. 

But  first,  one  kiss ;  for  there  did  Charlotte,  touch ; 

Ye  sacred  relics,  now  are  ye  most  dear ; 
Tho'  o'er  your  deeds  will  CHARLOTTE  sorrow  much, 

And  even  ALBERT  drop  a  pitying  tear. 

May  Heaven  forgive  the  unconsidered  deed ! 

It  gave  me  passions,  nor  could  I  control : 
But  if,  poor  WERTER,  'tis  a  crime  to  bleed, 

The  God  of  heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul !     ' 


135 

CHARLOTTE,  I  go !  my  pistols  have  their  load : 
My  last,  my  dying  thoughts  are  fixed  on  you ! 

I  go !  I  go  through  death's  untrodden  road ; 
Once,  and  forever,  CHARLOTTE  !  oh,  adieu  ! 


WERTER'S  EPITAPH. 

STRANGER  !  whoe'er  thou  art,  that  from  below 

This  grass-green  hill,  with  steady  steps,  dost  press, 
1     Shed  sympathetic  tears :  for,  stranger,  know, 
Here  lies  the  son  of  sorrow  and  distress. 


Although  his  soul  with  every  virtue  moved  j 
Though  at  his  birth  deceitful  fortune  smiled ; 

In  one  sad  hour,  too  fatally  he  loved ; 

False  fortune  frowned,  and  he  was  sorrow's  child. 

. 
Heaven  gave  him  passions,  as  she  virtue  gave, 

But  gave  not  power  those  passions  to  suppress  j 
By  them  subdued,  he  slumbers  in  the  grave, 

.The  soul's  last  refuge  from  terrene  distress. 


,    .136 

Around  bis  tomb  the  sweetest  grass  shall  spring, 
And  annual  flowers  shall  ever  blossom  here ; 

Here  fairy  forms  their  loveliest  gifts  shall  bring, 
And  passing  strangers  shed  the  pitying  tear. 


9- 

»     , 

ODE   TO.HEALTH. 

t 

HYGEIA  !  in  thy  charms  arrayed, 

In  all  thy  heavenly  bloom, 
Come,  wend  with  me,  and  be  my  aid ; 

Oh  lovely  goddess  !  come. 

The  vermil  rose,  that  shames  the  morn, 
Shall  bloom  upon  thy  face ; 

Thy  presence  little  loves  adorn, 
And  health,  and  joy,  and  peace. 

Sweet  goddess !  in  disease's  hour, 
At  bedside  dost  thou  stand ; 

And  aidest  full  oft  the  healing  power 
Of  the  prescribing  hand. 


137 

When  tbou  from  mortals  dost  depart, 

And  raging  fevers  burn ; 
The  skilled  physician  tries  his  art, 

And  woos  thee  to  return. 

Diseases  fly,  a  ghastly  band ! 

For  armed  with  power  to  save, 
Skillful  he  spreads  his  healing  hand, 

And  disappoints  the  grave. 

To  him  the  power,  who  gives  the  day, 
All  healing  knowledge  gives ; 

He  bids  the  rapid  fever  stay — 
The  dying  patient  lives. 

\yhen  grimly,  death,  with  caverned  eyes 
And  horrid  stride,  comes  on ; 

Begone !  the  godlike  mortal  cries, 
And  death,  rebuked,  is  gone. 

When  life  seems  quite  extinct,  yet  mark, 

A  spark  may  still  remain ; 
He  blows  the  still  remaining  spark ; 

And  life  returns  again. 


12* 


138 

But  skill  nor  medicine  will  restrain 

Disease's  pang  severe ; 
Unless,  oh  lovely  power !  thou  deign 

To  shed  thy  influence  there. 

Then  come,  celestial  goddess !  come ; 

Beside  me  ever  stand  ; 
And  second,  with  returning  bloom, 

Each  effort  of  my  hand, 

So  may  I  boast  the  heavenly  skill, 

To  rescue  from  distress : 
So  shall  my  powers  of  healing  still 

Be  crowned  with  sweet  success. 


ODE   TO   DEATH. 

How  shall  I  sing  to  thee,  oh  death? 
How  swell  the  song  with  living  breath — 

The  breath  that  is  not  mine  ? 
E'en  while  the  pensive  muse  complains, 
Thy  poison  rankles  in  my  veins, 

And  I  almost  am  thine. 


139 

Why  dost  thou,  monarch  of  the  dead, 
With  ghastly  form,  and  visage  dread, 

Thy  trembling  subjects  fright? 
Is't  not  enough,  that  soon  or  late, 
All  mortals,  by  resistless  fate, 

Are  doomed  to  feel  thy  might  ? 

Is't  not  enough,  that  mortals  own 
Allegiance  to  thy  horrid  throne, 

That  kings  thy  subjects  are  j 
But  thou  with  majesty  must  come, 
Clad  in  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 

To  shake  our  souls  with  fear  ? 

Thy  solemn  stride,  and  awful  mein, 
'  By  godlike  Socrates  were  seen ; 

No  fear  to  him  they  gave ; 
Serene,  the  good  man  smiled,  and  cried, 
Thy  terrors,  death,  are  all  defied  j 

Thy  threatening  dart  I  crave, 

When,  all  aside  thy  horrors  laid, 
Thy  form  the  placid  sage  surveyed, 
He  clasped  thee  to  his  breast ; 


140 

And  oli !  amidst  my  mortal  hour, 
Come  to  my  bedside  thus,  dread  power ! 
Thus  fold  me  into  rest. 

When  for  my  breath  the  summons  flies, 
Oh,  view  me  not  with  caverned  eyes, 

And  horrid  gorgon  stare !  . 
Oh,  come  not  with  thy  bloodless  face, 
Thy  crooked  scythe,  thy  running  glass, 

Thy  skeleton  all  bare ! 

The  blast  across  the  desert  howls ! 
The  clock  strikes  one !  the  curfew  tolls  ! 

Leaves  rustle  from  the  tree ! 
With  spectral-lights  the  church-yard  gleams ! 
The  raven  shrieks !  the  night-bird  screams ! 

Now,  death  '  I  think  on  thee. 

When  racked  with -spasm  and  headache  dire, 
With  ague's  chill,  or  febrile  fire, 

I  lie,  and  gasp  for  breath, 
And  feel,  retired  from  every  part, 
The  generous  flood  that  warms  the  heart, 

I  think  on  thee,  oh  death  ! 


;    .... 

. 

141 

Oh !  when  thou  dost  approach,  dread  king ! 
Aside  thy  ghastly  terrors  fling ; 

Let  smiles  adorn  thy  face : 
Come,  clothed  in  sunshine,  to  my  sight ; 
So  shall  I  view  thee  with  delight ; 

And  spring  to  thy  embrace. 


HYMN   TO   THE    SUN. 

FROM   OSSIAN. 

On  thou !  that  rollest  on  high, 

As  round  as  the  shield  of  my  sires ; 

Say,  whence  draw  thy  beams  their  supply? 
Who  kindles  thy  radiant  fires  ? 

The  stars  hide  themselves  from  the  day, 
When  thou  comest  all  gorgeously  dressed ; 

The  moon,  cold  and  pale,  hastes  away, 
And  sinks  in  the  wave  of  the  west. 


142 


But  thou,  through  the  crystaline  hall, 
Companion  hast  none  on  thy  way : 

The  oaks  of  the  mountains  shall  fall ; 
.The  mountains  themselves  shall  decay ; 

The  tides  shrink  and  grow  on  the  main ; 

The  moon  oft  recedes  from  our  sight; 
But  thou  dost  forever  remain 

Unchanged,  and  rejoice  in  thy  light. 

When  thunders  are  bellowing  loud, 
And  tempests  the  heavens. deform; 

All  calmly  thou  look'st  from  the  cloud 
In  thy  beauty,  and  laugh'st  at  the  storm, 

But  Ossian.no  more  can  behold 

Thy  beam  from  the  gates  of  the  west ; 

Nor  view  thy  hair  sparkling  with  gold, 
When  it  flows  on  the  clouds  of  the  east. 

Yet  thy  years  may,  like  mine,  have  a  close ; 

The  skies  thou  may'st  cease  to  adorn ; 
In  thy  cloud-curtained  couch  may'st  repose ; 

Nor  care  for  the  summons,  of  morn. 


143 

Exult  then,  oh  sun !  in  thy  youth ; 

For  age,  that  may  find  thee  full  soon, 
Is  dark  and  unlovely  in  sooth ; 

Like  the  glimmering  light  of  the  moon, 

<      When  feebly  it  shines  through  the  clouds, 

And  the  blast  of  the  north  is  abroad ; 
When  the  mist  every  mountain-top  shrouds ; 
.  And  the  traveler  shrinks  on  his  road. 

*  i 


FRAGMENT 


OF  AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND,  WHO  HAD  DESIRED  THE 
AUTHOR  TO  WRITE  SOME  ACROSTICS. 


MUST  still  such  themes  the  poet's  verse  profane?, 
Will  still  the  shade  of  Addison  refrain  ? 
Ah  !  no :  before  my  sight  the  spectre  stands, 
And  waves  my  sentence*  in  his  deathless  hands ; 


*  Mr.  Addison,  in  his  Spectators,  is  particularly  severe 
against  acrostic  compositions. 


144 

Oh !  much-loved  friend,  my  valued  HILL,  no  more 
For  such  low  themes  the  unready  bard  implore ; 
Direct  the  muse  to  some  far  .nobler  view, 
Some  heaven-born  theme,  some  subject  worthy  you ; 
Then  would  the  bard,  with  far  sublimer  fire, 
Raise  the  bold  song,  while  Heaven  and  you  inspire ; 
As  soaring  high,  in  epic  verse  he  sings 
The  fate  of  empires,  and  the  fall  'of  kings ; 
How  great  Achilles,  furious  to  destroy, 
Withstood  the  force  of  heaven-defended  Troy ; 
Till  o'er  her  turrets  waved  the  aspiring  flame, 
And  left  all  Ilium  nothing  but  a  name : 
Or  Maro-like,  on  Pegasean  wings, 
In  friendship's  cause  attune  the  trembling  strings ; 
How  Nisus  loved ;  how  Euryalus  burned, 
And  flame  for  flame  the  virtuous  youths  returned. 
Illustrious  pair !  by  mutual  fates  allied, 
Nor  death's  grim  king  their  union  could  divide ; 
Even  tbe  stern  soul  of  great  Pelides  moved, 
Loved  by  his  friend;  by  his  Patroclus  loved. 
Yet  if  no  spark  of  glowing  genius  shines 
Through  the  long  train  of  these  increasing  lines ; 
For  frieiuMiip's  sake  the  humble  verse  receive, 
Your  bard's  presumption  and  his  lays  forgive ; 
Once  read  him  through,  and  if  your  patience  tire, 
Condemn  the  culprit  to  an  instant  lire. 


145 


ADDRESS    TO   ACROSTIC   WRITERS, 

YE  scribbling  herd,  who,  in  acrostic  lays, 
Yourselves,  your  writings,  or  a  mistress  praise; 
Remit  your  labors,  and  for  once  attend 
The  unsought  counsel  of  a  faithful  friend : 
Awhile  give  ear ;  attention  shall  repay, 
The  fond  instruction  of  the  well  meant  lay. 

Acrostic  labors,  by,  no  muse  inspired, 
Are  praised  by  dunces,  and  by  fools  admired ; 
Yet  bards  and  critics  of  superior  vein,  '  , 

In  vile  contempt  have  ever  held  the  strain, 
Those  paltry  works  such  judges  ne'er  could  please, 
Though  true  in  letters,  and  though  wrote  with  ease ; 
But  all  agree,  this  maxim  to  recite, 
Who  writes  acrostics,  nothing  else  can  write. 
Scorned  are  the  wretched  lays ;  and,  lost  to  fame, 
The  author  carries  an  oblivious  name. 

When  Homer's  muse,  in  majesty  of  song, 
Pours  all  the  thunder  of  the  war  along, 
We  read  no  anagram  on  Hector's  name ; 
Nor  was  the  prince  of  poetry  to  blame. 
(Achilles  too,  retired  from  martial  strife, 
Writes  no  acrostic  on  his  captive  wife.) 

13 
i 


146 

But  the  great  bard,  inspired  by  every  muse, 
Bounds  to  the  skies,  and  spurns  all  narrow  views ; 
Swells  the  bold  song,. while  listening  crowds  admire, 
And  soars  sublimely  on  the  wings  of  fire. 
On  comes  Achilles  with  impetuous  rage; 
The  tumult  thickens ;  now  the  chiefs  engage ; 
And  now  great  JOVE,  eternal  ruler,  shrouds 
His  whole  creation  in  a  night  of  clouds. 
Death  follows  death,  the  clashing  arms  resound, 
Loud  roar  the  heavens,  blue  lightnings  flash  around ; 
Fierce  Discord  storms,  Apollo  loud  exclaims, 
Fame  calls,  Mars  thunders,  and  the  field's  in  flames. 

But  when  wild  Ossian  wakes  the  Celtic  fire, 
The  voice  of  spirits  trembles  on  his  lyre. 
He,  pensive  bard,  all  lonely  loved  to  stray 
O'er  barren  heaths,  and  every  desert  way. 
Whatnvarm  description  all  his  works  unfold ! 
He  writes,  we  hear !  he  paints,  and  we  behold ! 
While  yet  we  read,  the  gale  seems  whistling  still 
Throug^the  long  grass,  on  Morveu's  lonely  hill ; 
In  every  passing  breeze  we  hear  the  dead, 
And  see  the  tem|fcst  roll  o'er  Cromla's  head. 

'Tis  power  like  this  awakes  the  mournful  tear, 
In  that  sweet  bard,  unhappy  Falconer, 
Who  thrills  the  soul  with  his  poetic  fire, 
"  As  lightning  glances  on  the  electric  wire." 


147 

But,  ye  vile  rhymers,  who,  in  modern  strain 
Of  base  acrostics,  tell  the  fair  your  pain ; 
Though  just  our  judgment,  though  the  muse  be  true, 
Such  grand  descriptions  are  but  lost  on  you. 
You  comprehend  them  not ;  and  trifles  will 
Best  fill  those  heads,  an  anagram  can  nil. 

"  Love  makes  a  man  a  poet ;"  grant  it  so ; 
Are  ye  then  bards  ?  Parnassus  echoes,  NO  ! 
When  ye  have  sweetly  tuned  your  sing-song  lays ; 
When  just  no  meaning  every  word  conveys ; 
Your  theme  complete ;  the  intended  name  portrayed; 
In  side-long  letters  prettily  .displayed ; 
Then,  rhymers,  know  you've  gathered  all  your  fame, 
And  gained  at  last  the  POETASTER'S  name. 
That  name,  by  fops,  and  fools,  and  dances,  prized, 
By  men  of  sense  forever  was  despised. 


148 


0  RECIPE   FOR   A    COUGH." 

MUCH  coughingj  dear  PHEBE,  with  ease  you  might 

spare, 
Much. hoarseness  and  trouble,  much  headache  and 

care; 

If  a  wet  parlor-floor  you  would  seldom  admit, 
Or  a  window  shoved  up  in  the  room  where  you  sit ; 
If  abroad  'twere  your  rule  but  few  moments  to  spend, 
When  the  damp  shades  of  evening  unhealthy  descend; 
But  when  sable  night  with  its  vapors  molest, 
Be  sparing  of  supper,  be  early  to  rest : 
Then  lie  in  the  morning  as  long  as  you  please, 
While  something  diverts  you — for  nothing  should 

tease ; 

With  the  steam  of  your  Aysow,  if  health  you  pursue, 
Accept,  without  butter,  a  biscuit  or  two ; 
When  you  rise,  it  will  further  the  care  of  your  cough, 
Though  your  dress  should  be  light,  let  there  still  be 
-     enough: 


*  A  medical  prescription,  (impromptu,)  on  being  con 
sulted  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  is  addressed. 


149 

Serene  be  your  passions,  the  temper  be  calm ; 
Keep  easy,  contented ;  keep  cheerful  and  warm : 
These  are  my  directions ;  be  this  your  belief, 
I'm  an  ignorant  old  quack,  if  they  give  not  relief 


CURIOSITY   AND   DECEPTION,* 

\ 

ADDRESSED  TO  DELIA. 

DELIA  !  mankind  are  false,  you  say ;  ' 

And  like  the  rest  of  men,  I  may 

Be  counted  a  deceiver ; 
'Tig  true,  my  dear,  but  still  I've  thought, 
That,  Delia,  you  had  better  not 

Become  an  unbeliever. 

Suppose  my  curious  thoughts  should  rise ; 
Suppose  my  bold  observing  eyes 
Should  dare  to  look  around  them : 


*  Occasioned  by  a  young  lady's  applying  these  words  to 

the  author. 

. 


13* 


150 

What  could  they,  dearest  Delia,  find, 
Or  in  your  face,  or  in  your  mind, 
But  beauty  to  confound  them  ? 

Suppose  in  common  with  mankind, 
To  speak  untruths  I  were  inclined— 

For  Delia  seems  to  fear  it ; 
Sure  I  must  speak  against  your  name, 
For  how  could  I  that  praise  proclaim, 

Which  Delia  does  not  merit, 

No,  Delia!  when  of  you  I  speak, 

And  from  my  tongue  the  raptures  break, 

'Twill  bear  no  contradiction ; 
For  when  your  beauty's  power  he  feels, 
Believe  me,  Arouet  never  deals 

In  complimental  fiction. 


i 


151 

TO  ASHLEY  RIVER. 
AIB-"  Maid  of  the  Mill." 

HAIL  i  sweet  Ashley  river,  whose  serpentine  flow 
Gives  health,  and  gives  pleasure  around ; 

I  hail  thee,  sweet  river,  for  well  do  I  know 
The  charms  on  thy  banks  that  are  found. 

The  lovely  fair  opening  that  breaks  on  the  sight ; 

The  prospects  by  nothing  confined  j 
Have  filled  my  whole  soul  with  ideas  of  delight ; 

Have  fired  and  enraptured  my  mind. 

Then,  oh !  when  the  sunbeams  reflect  from  thy  stream, 

In  thy  neighborhood  may  I  remain ; 
I'll  sing  of  thy  absent  Amanda's  esteem, 

And  thou  shall  remurmur  the  strain. 

Should  any,  inquisitive,  ask  whence  belong 
The  soft  flowing  sounds  they  have  heard ; 

Oh !  tell  them,  sweet  river,  'tis  Arouet's  song — 
The  plaintive,  the  sorrowful  bard. 


• 


152 


THE  DOVE, 


A  FRAGMENT. 


'  "  WHAT  grief  (it  continued)  my  comfort  destroys, 

While  Absent  from  me  is  my  love  :" 
I  listened  with  wonder,  convinced  by  the  noise, 
'Twas  the  mournful  complaint  of  a  DOVE. 

Dear  partner  in  wo,  if  thy  love  be  remote, 

Thy  cooing  is  all  but  in  vain  : 
Though  had  I  thy  wings,  and  thy  sorrowful  note, 

I  would  tell  my  Amanda  my  pain. 

'Tis  done,  sweet  Amanda  !  the  boon  I've  procured, 
And  hence  when  you  hear  the  fond  dove, 

It  is  but  your  Arouet,  sweet  maid,  be  assured  ; 
In  absence  he  mourns  for  his  love. 


153 


RONDEAU  TO   THE   RIVER   SANTEE, 

HAIL  !  Santee,  delightful  river, 
How  shall  I  attempt  thy  praise  ? 

Bards  shall  sing  thee  oft,  but  never 
Match  thy  splendor  with  their  lays. 

On  thy  shady  banks  reclining, 
While  the  breezes  fan  the  grove ; 

Flowers,  and  reeds,  and  oziers  twining, 
Twill  sing  of  thee,  my  love. 

• '  •  • 

i  Should  Amanda  grant  the  favor 
Of  a  sigh,  and  think  on  me ; 
I  will  bless  the  day  forever, 
When  I  hailed  thee,  sweet  Santee, 


1  I 


154 


ASHLEY   CHASE. 

GOD  save  the  sport,  and  bless  the  cheer, 
And  grant  us  joy  and  peace  j 

And  grant  henceforth  that  hunting  deer 
May  ne'er  at  Ashley  cease. 

To  hunt  the  deer  with  hound  and  gun, 
Three  sportsmen  took  their  way  j 

The  fawn  shall  rue,  that  never  run, 
The  hunting  of  that  day. 

Squire  M—e  on  a. milk- white  steed, 

Most  like  a  huntsman  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  the  company, 

All  glorious  to  behold. 

Then  came  a  gallant  squire  forth, 

A  certain  K was  he ; 

And  said  for  the  honor  of  our  land, 

I  would  not  have  it  be, — 


155 

That  deer  should  come  full  in  our  face, 
And  we  not  have  a  shot ; 

1  Behold  where  L has  let  them  pass, 

And  M — e  killed  them  not. 

He  raised  his  gun  with  breathless  aim ; 

The  ball  no  deer  could  find : 
And  having  each  man  done  the  same, 

They  all  rode  home,  and  dined. 


TO   TIVERTON. 

SWEET  TIVERTON  !  thy  mild  salubrious  air, 
Diffusing  health  and  dissipating  care, 
Thy  lovely  plain,  thy  dear  enameled  meads, 
Thy  cultured  gardens,  and  thy  pensive  shades ; 
Thy  much  loved  children,  all  inspire  my  lays, 
With  the  sweet  tribute  of  sjncerest  praise. 
Ah !  let  none  think  the  poet  can  depart 
From  genuine  praise,  the  purpose  of  his  heart. 
No :  in  this  breast  it  holds  too  ample  space, 
Too  well  he  loves  the  dear  delightful  place, 


156 


Whose  beauties  ne'er  can  be  forgotten  more, 
.  Till  the  last  trembling  of  his  heart  is  o'er  : 
Till  then  his  tongue  in  grateful  strains  shall  own 
The  much  loved  prospect  of  fair  Tiverton, 


TRIBUTARY  PIECES. 


14 


TRIBUTARY  PIECES, 


TO   AROUET. 

BY  PHILOMELA. 

SWEET  BARD  !  accept  these  rudely  written  lays, 
Too  proud  to  flatter,  and  too  poor  to  praise : 
Yet  truth,  though  dressed  in  ragged  guise,  may  be 
A  well  owed  tribute,  not  unworthy  thee. 
Fain  would  I  praise  some  part,  but  all's  so  well, 
That  none  can  show  wherein  thou  dost  excel. 
Oh !  when  the  angelic  choir,  all  gathered  round 
The  eternal  throne,  their  silver  harps  shall  sound, 
Shall  not  thy  numbers  wake  the  warbling  wire  7 
And  when,  at  last,  this  world  dissolves  in  fire, 
Shall  not  some  cherub  snatch  the  favored  lays, 
And  save  thy  sacred  relics  from  the  blaze  ? 
Yes, 

Eternity  shall  bear  the  strains  along, 
While  listening  saints  admire,  and  seraphs  learn  die 
song. 


160 


TO   AROUET   THE   BARD. 

WHEN  sacred  Homer  held  his  rapid  way, 

Sublimely  winged,  to  realms  of  endless  day, 

The  Muses  saw,  delighted  as  they  viewed, 

His  road  to  fame  by  favorite  sons  pursued : 

First  Virgil's  pen  retrieved  the  blessing  lost, 

And  bid  Italia's  shore  a  Homer  boast ; 

Thence  Gallia's  sons  and  Britain's,  all  agree, 

Caught  the  rich  mantle  of  sweet  poesy ; 

Thence  rose  the  chaste  Despreaux — immortal  name, 

And  great  Voltaire  all  emulous  of  fame, 

With  glowing  Pope  and  soaring  Dry  den  came. 

But  now  the  Muses  ?gan  their  loss  deplore, 

For  Pope  was  gone,  and  Voltaire  was  no  more : 

The  gods,  in  pity  to  their  plaintive  strain, 

Have  sent  Moeonides  to  earth  again ; 

Again  he  lives,  and  what  was  Harness,  now 

With  common  voice  on  Arouct  we  bestow ; 

The  high  sublime  of  the  divine  old  bard 

Breathes  in  thy  numbers,  in  thy  song  is  heard ; 

No  more  we  Homer's  imitator  see, 

For  thou,  sweet  poet,  thou  thyself  art  he. 


161 


POEM.* 

BY    ALMLXA. 

•     • 

MELPOMENE  i  thou  bright  celestial  maid ! 

A  wretched  lover  humbly  craves  thine  aid, 

If  thou  art  on  thy  loved  Parnassus  now, 

Where  wreaths  of  laurel  shade  thy  graceful  brow  j 

Say,  goddess,  wilt  thou  leave  that  charming  place, 

And  deign  one  moment  to  inspire  my  lays? 

These  eyes  my  Phaon  ne'er  will  see  again ; 
That  godlike  man  surpassing  every  swain : 
Heaven  had  with  virtue  blessed  his  mind, 
With  manly  fortitude  and  pity  kind  ; 
The  generous  tears  fell  for  another's  wo, 
Which  for  his  own  were  never  seen  to  flow  j 
While  genius  led  him  through  her  boundless  sphere, 

His  talent  brilliant,  as  his  soul  sincere: 

. 

'Tis  true,  I  never  told  him  of  my  love, 

Nor  dared  to  hint  what  he  might  disapprove ; 


*  This  poem  is  the  production  of  "  the  unfortunate  young 
lady,  to  whose  memory  "  the  monody"  at  page  124,  win 
inscribed  by  Dr.  Ladd. 

14* 


162 

But  oh !  when  he  appeared,  how  glowed  my  breast, 
Though  I  with  art  the  rising  sigh  suppressed ;       * 
And  still  my  greatest  pleasure  was  all  day, 
To  gaze  on  him,  and  sigh  my  soul  away ; 
Hoping  some  pitying  god  his  soul  might  move, 
And  he  at  length  return  my  constant  love.   . 

Vain  was  the  hope ;  his  breast  Minerva  steeled, 
And  fixed  that  heart  unknowing  how  to  yield; 
But  now  these  fond,  delusive  hopes  are  o'er ; 
Never,  ah !  never  shall  I  see  him  more. 

In  a  tall  ship  he  crossed  the  swelling  main, 
To  fight  and  conquer  on  the  bloody  plain, 
Where  thundering  Mars,  the  dreadful  god  of  war, 
Clad  in  bright  arms,  rolls  his  triumphant  car :       , 
Thence  he  in  peace  shall  seek  his  native  shore, 
And  never  think  of  poor  Almena  more. 

Yet  still  each  night,  to  my  fond  fancy  dressed, 
In  all  his  blooming  charms  he  stands  confessed ; 
He  smiles,  and  bows,  and  oh !  he  softly  speaks, 
The  beauteous  blushes  still  adorn  his  cheeks. 
But  when  with  night  the  dear  delusion  flies, 
And  I  to  sorrow  ope  my  swelling  eyes, 
I  rise,  and  to  some  lonely  covert  stray, 
Where  all  alone  I  mourn  my  life  away, 
And  waste  in  sighs  and  tears  the  tedious  day. 


163 

Yet  one  sweet  hope  still  cheers  ray  troubled  mind, 
That  he  in  yon  blest  clouds  may  prove  more  kind ; 
Where  soon  this  disembodied  soul  may  rove, 
Through  the  sweet  fields  and  blissful  plains  above ; 
Those  plains  where  happy  lovers  shall  deplore 
Nor  time,  nor  chance,  nor  cruel  absence  more ; 
But  where  they  pass  their  soft  delightful  hours, 
Blessed  with  each  other  in  Elysian  bowers, 
By  purling  streams,  and  ever  blooming  flowers : 
There  with  immortal  charms  our  souls  shall  shine, 
And  godlike  Phaon  shall  be  ever  mine. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES 


IN  PROSE. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


EXTRACTS    PROM   AN   ORATION, 

Delivered  in  the  presence  of  his  excellency  tho  governor 
of  South  Carolina,  at  the  celebration  of  American  indepen 
dence,  at  Charleston,  July  4, 1765. 

•     .  .   '      i . 

• 

1  "  Tell  ye  your  children  of  it,  and  let  your  children 
tell  their  children,  and  their  children  another  genera 
tion." 

A  prophet  divinely  inspired,  and  deeply  impressed 
with  the  importance  of  an  event  which  had  just 
taken  place,  breaks  out  into  this  exclamation — an 
exclamation  happily  adapted  to  the  present  occasion ; 
tending  to  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  an  event, 
which  is  written  upon  the  heart  of  every  true  Ame 
rican,  every  friend  to  his  country.  When  we  con- 


168 


eider  this  as  the  natal  anniversary  of  our  infant 
empire,  we  shall  ever  be  led  to  call  into  grateful 
recollection  the  fathers  of  our  independence — those 
to  whom,  under  God,  we  are  indebted  for  our  politi 
cal  existence  and  salvation.    A  short  eulogium  upon 
them,  their  merits,  and  their  honors,  will  be  the  sys 
tem  of  the  present  discourse ;  for  what  more  happy 
subject  can  be  chosen  on  this  day,  than  the  great 
authors  *f  our  liberty?  they,  who  "digged  it  out 
with  their  swords !"  who,  in  the  grim  face  of  death, 
amidst  perils-  innumerable,  gave  the  purchase  of  their 
blood;  who  built  it  upon  their  own  tombs;   and 
whose  spirits,  bending  from  the  sky,  point  with 
pleasure  to  its  foundation.    But  where  am  I  ?    Fairy 
scenes  open  around  me,  and  I  seem  to  press  the 
ground  of  enchantment.     Behold  yon  vast  structure, 
which  towers  to  the  very  heavens !     Is  it  not  ce 
mented  with  blood,  and  built  upon  the  slaughtered 
carcases  of  many  a  gallant  soldier  ?     On  its  broad 
front,  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE  shines  conspicu- 
.  ous  in  characters  of  crimson !   surrounding  nature 
appears  animated !  the  very  tombs  accost  the  traveler 
and  seemingly  repeat,    • 


169 

"  How  beautiful  is  death  when  earned  by  virtue ! 
Who  would  not  sleep  with  those  1  What  pity  is  it 
That  we  can  die  but  once  to  save  our  country  !"* 

The  eventful  history  of  our  great  revolution  is 
pregnant  with  many  a  source  of  sublime  astonish 
ment  !  Succeeding  ages  shall  turn  the  historic  page, 
and  catch  inspiration  from  the  era  of  1776.  They 
shall  bow  to  the  rising  glory  of  America ;  and  Rome, 
once  mistress  of  the  world,  shall  fade  on  their  remem 
brance.  The  commencement  of  our  struggles,  their 
progress,  and  their  period,  will  furnish  a  useful  lesson 
to  posterity.  They  will  teach  them  that  men,  des 
perate  for  freedom,  united  in  virtue,  and  assisted  by 
the  God  of  armies,  can  never  be  subdued.  The 
youthful  warrior,  the  rising  politician,  will  tremble 
at  the  retrospect,  and  turn  pale  at  the  amazing  story. 
America,  the  infant  America,  all  defenseless  as  she 
is,  is  invaded  by  a  most  powerful  nation ;  her  plains 
covered  by  disciplined  armies,  her  harbors  crowded 
with  hostile  fleets.  Destitute  of  arms,  destitute  of 
ammunition,  with  no  discipline  but  their  virtue,  and 
no  general  but  their  God,  behold  our  brave  country 
men  rising  to  resistance.  See  the  first  encroach- 

*  Addison's  Cato. 
15 


170 

meats  of  hostility  withstood  at  Lexington ;  and,  oh 
Britain ! '  write  that  page  of  thy  history  in  crimson, 
and  margin  it  with  black,  for  thy  troops  fled  i  routed 
with  stones,  with  clubs;  and  every  ignominious  wea 
pon,  they  fled  from  our  women,  they  were  defeated 
by  our  children !  At  this  very  time,  a  member  of 
the  British  parliament  could  assert  in  open  day,  that 
a  single  regiment  of  disciplined  troops  would  march 
through  America,  and  crush  the  rebels  to  subjection. 
The  experiment  was  tried :  it  was  reiterated,  and  the 
success  was  every  way  worthy  of  the  rash  attempt. 
Such  has  been  the  inconsistency  of  theory  and  prac 
tice,  relative  to  American  subjugation.  But  were 
freemen,  were  Americans  to  be  intimidated  by  the 
military  parade  of  hostile  regiments  ?  Answer,  ye 
Britons !  for  by  a  bloody  experience  have  ye  been 
taught  the  reverse :  by  a  bloody  experience  were  ye 
taught  never  to  oppose  men  desperate  for  their  coun 
try  :  and  by  that  bloody  experience  will  your  chil 
dren,  and  your  children's  children  acquire  instruction. 
They  will  learn  wisdom  from  the  history  of  defense 
less  Americans,  who,  when  threatened  with  the  loss 
of  their  liberties — liberties,  which  were  coeval  with 
their  existence,  and  dearer  than  their  lives — arose  in 
resistance,  and  were  nerved  by  desperation.  "YVhat 
is  the  consequence  ?  The  invaders  were  repulsed, 


171 

their  armies  captured,  their  strong  works  demolished, 
and  their  fleets  driven  back.  Behold,  the  terrible 
flag,  that  glory  of  Great  Britain,  drooping  all  tar 
nished  from  the  mast,  bewails  its  sullied  honors. 
This,  my  countrymen,  by  assistance  superhuman; 
have  we  at  length  accomplished.  I  say  by  superhu 
man  assistance,  for  one  of  us  has  "  chased  a  thousand, 
and  ten  put  ten  ^thousand  to  flight."  "  The  Lord 
of  hosts  was  on  our  side,  the  God  of  the  armies  of 
Israel ;"  and  at  every  blow  we  were  ready  to  exclaim 
with  glorious  exultation,  "  The  sword  of  the  Lord 
and  of  Washington  !"  Yet,  how  did  even  America 
despair,  when  the  protecting  hand  of  her  great 
Leader  was  one  moment  withheld !  Witness  our 
veteran  army  retreating  through  the  Jerseys;  an 
almost  total  withering  to  our  hopes,  while  America 
trembled  with  expectation — trembled,  though  shield 
ed  and  protected  by  the  KING  OP  KINGS,  and  her 
beloved  Washington. 

But  brilliant,  rapid,  and  successive  have  our  con 
quests  been,  while  the  gloomy  "  times  that  try  men's 
souls"  were  few  and  of  short  duration.  America, 
destined  to  be  independent,  gathered  strength  amidst 
surrounding  difficulties :  she  arose,  like  Antams,  vigo 
rous  from  every  fall.  Her  resentment  was  accom- 


172 

panied  by  the  winged  bolt  of  destruction :  it  flashed 
like  lightning  from  heaven  against  her  enemies,  and 
blasted  as  it  smote.  Opposition  like  this,  what  mor 
tals  could  withstand  ?  for  it  is  written  in  the  volumes 
of  eternity,  that  even  Britain,  that  hardy,  that  gallant 
nation,  was  unequal  to  the  conflict.  Yet  while  we 
justly  admire  the  valor  and  success  of  our  veteran 
armies,  let  us.  shed  one  tear  to  the  memory  of  those 
"unfortunately  brave,"  who  were  martyrs  in  the 
common  cause ;  and  while  we  celebrate  their  actions, 
while  we  glory  in  their  virtues,  let  us  deplore  the 
catastrophe,  and  lament  their  misfortunes.  What 
catastrophe?  what  misfortunes?  Pardon  me/  my 
respected  auditors ;  let  your  indulgent  bosoms  plead 
in  my  favor,  and  remember  that  the  timid  perturba 
tion  of  a  young  orator,  before  so  august  an  assembly, 
must  lead  him  into  frequent  improprieties.  I  said 
we  should  lament  their  misfortunes:  I  beg  leave  to 
correct  that  too  hasty  expression ;  for  surely  it  is  no 
misfortune  to  the  man  that  he  has  died  for  his  coun 
try.  Quite  the  re  verse: 'it  is  the  highest  acme  of 
military  ambition,  and  gilds  the  soldier's  name  with 
a  halo  of  perpetual  glory. 

"  The  gallant  man,  though  slain  in  fight  he  be, 
Yet  leaves  his  country  safe,  hia  nation  free. 


173 

Entails  a  debt  on  all  the  grateful  state ; 
His  own  brave  friends  shall  glory  in  his  fate, 
His  wife  live  honored,  all  his  race  succeed, 
And  late  posterity  enjoy  the  deed."* 

The  fall  of  the  brave  man  is  by  no  means  like 
the  death  of  the  vulgar.  It  is  the  birth-day  of  his 
glory,  and  opens  to  a  blessed  immortality.  Then, 
.  the  hoary  warrior,  who  has  learned  the  rudiments  of 
his  profession  under  Washington,  or  Wolfe,  or  Mont- 
calm,  or  the  great  Montgomery,  shall  commence 
his  soldiership :  then,  enlisted  in  the  armies  of  Mi 
chael,  that  archangelic  chieftain,  he  shall  fight  the 
battles  of  the  Lord.  Nor  shall  his  earthly  fame  be 
unremembered ;  but  when  the  historic  leaf  shall 
shiver  in  the  blaze,  when  all  human  works,  the 
great  Iliad  itself,  receive  their  finish  from  the  fire, 
the  soldier's  memory  must  survive,  for  it  is  registered 
in  heaven.  Yes  !  ye  shall  live  in  fame,  ye  shades  of 
Warren,  of  Mercer,  of  Lauren?,  and  the  brave  Mont 
gomery  !  and  when  in  remotest  ages,  posterity  shall 
call  forth  every  distinguishing  characteristic  of  human 
excellence,  the  genius  of  your  country  shall  bend 
his  drooping  head,  and  one  tear,  one  grateful  tear,  be 

*  Pope's  Homer. 

15*  -; 


174 

shed  to  your  remembrance.  Then  the  young  warrior, 
emulous  of  your  fates  and  your  fame,  shall  feel  his 
burning  soul ;  and  while  he  unsheathes  the  patriotic 
blade,  shall  exclaim  with  transport,  "  How  beautiful 
is  death  when  earned  by  virtue  !"  But  peace  to  your  ' 
.manes,  ye  dear  departed  brethren !  Ye  have  trodden 
the  path  of  honor  before  us,  and  obtained  the  crown 
of  glory.  Brethren  !  it  is  all  your  own;  for  bravely  . 
did  ye  obtain  it.  May  the  green  sod  lie  light  on 
your  breasts,  and  sweet  be  your  slumbers  in  the  dark 
house  appointed  for  all  living.  .  -  , 

"U 

"  So  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 

With  all  their  country's  wishes  blest : 
.  When  spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 

Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
.  She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 

Than  fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 

There,  honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 

And  freedom  shall  a  while  repair, 

To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there."* 


*  Collins. 


175 

But  we  turn  to  take  a  view  of  those  worthy  au 
thors  of  our  independence  who  have  survived  the 
contest.  A  living  patriot !  Where  is  the  bosom  that 
does  not  vibrate  with  pleasure  at  the  sound  ?  The 
dead  can  only  receive  the  tribute  of  remembrance, 
and  long  shall  they  possess  it ;  hut  the  living  are 
entitled  to  our  warmest  thanks,  our  united  benedic 
tions.  Here,  words  must  fail ;  for  who  can  duly 
praise  'the  living  patriots  of  America  ?  Alas !  barely 
to  recount  their  names,  their  merits,  and  their 
honors,  would  exhaust  the  powers  of  language ;  to 
'do  them  justice,  is  above  all  Ciceronian  rhetoric,, 
and  'calls  for  the  eloquence  of  angels.  You,  and 
you,  with  a  very  respectable  part  of  my  present 
audience, 'have  fronted  danger  in  the  bloody  field. 
With  a  truly  masonic  fortitude  have  ye  assisted  in 
the  structure  of  our  independence ;  and  we  will  tell 
the  story  to  your  children,  and  your  children  shall 
tell  their  children,  and  their  children  another  gene 
ration.  Tims  shall  your  honors  be  transmitted  with 
undiminishcd  lustre  to  posterity ;  and  future  writers 
shall  praise  the  brave  man,  and  crown  their  eulo- 
gium  with  "  his  father  was  an  American." 

Allow  me,  my  auditors,  one  claim  on  your  atten 
tion  to  the  beloved  name  of  Washington.  For  how, 
upon  a  celebration  like  this,  can  the  name  of  Wash- 


176 

ington  be  distant.?  he  whose  unbiased  virtue,  firm 
patriotism,  unequaled  abilities,  and  steady  perseve 
rance,  are  written  upon  the  hearts  of  his  brethren  ? 
Though  retired  from  the  theatre  of  action  in  the  full 
splendor  of  meridian  glory,  he  can  never  be  lost  to 
his  country.  We  see  him  in  our  liberties,  and  shall 
forever  see  him,  while  that  opus  magnum,  the  inde 
pendence  of  America,  remains  in  existence.  Where 
are  those  who  admire  the  unexampled  patriot,  and 
"•  in  whose  ears  the  name  of  a  soldier  sounds  like  the 
name  of  a  friend  ?"  Oh !  that  upon  this  day  ye 
would  join  your  friendly  voices  with  mine  to  eternize 
the  name  of  Washington.  The  august  veteran  of 
Prussia  has  himself  led  the  way,  and  left  it  upon 
everlasting  record,  that  Frederic  was  the  oldest  gene 
ral  in  Europe,  when  Washington  was  the  greatest 
general  upon  earth. 

From  scenes  of  slaughter,  where  the  sanguine  heath 
Is  shook  with  battle  and  is  filled  with  death ; 
From  shouting  bands,  tumultuous  in  applause, 
From  kindling  states  ambitious  of  his  laws, 
.  He  turned.    What  chief  could,  oh  Columbia  i  shine 
With  half  the  heaven-born  dignity  of  thine  ? 
Once  more  to  thy  fair  seats  we  view  thee  come, 
While  each  pleased  neighbor  gratuiatcs  thee  home ; 


177 

On  grass-green  Vernon  lovelier  beams  the  morn, 
And  glad  Potomac  murmurs  thy  return. 
Illustrious  chief!  amidst  thy  sweet  retreat, 
May est  thou  live  happy,  as  thou'rt  good  and  great : 
While  yet  thou  vie  west  with  rapture  in  thy  eyes, 
Thy  darling  land  in  full-orbed  glory  rise ; 
While  no  dark  tyrant  o'er  Columbia  frowns, 
But  heaven-born  freedom  every  blessing  crowns. 
No  more  thy  bands  their  Washington  implore, 
Thy  rescued  country  calls  to  arms  no  more ; 
But  smiling  Heaven  has  lulled  thy  cares  to  rest, 
And  calmed  with  lenient  hand  thy  troubled  breast ; 
In  sweet  retirement  bids  thy  sorrows  cease, 
And  gilds  the  evening  of  thy  days  with  peace : 
In  halcyon  flow,  and  smooth  as  summer's  seas, 
Thy  hours  shall  pass  in  philosophic  ease, 
Till  time  shall  gently  beck  thee  from  the  stage, 
In  the  mild  mellow  of  a  ripe  old  age : 
Then,  while  thy  country  holds  thy  memory  dear, 
Full  many  an  eye  shall  start  the  gushing  tear. 
Nor  needest  thou  mourn  in  Alexandrian  lays, 
Thou  hast  no  Homer  to  record  thy  praise  ; 
For  many  a  bard,  of  ages  yet  unborn, 
Shall  with  thy  name  his  tuneful  lays  adorn ; 
In  lasting  archives  shall  thy  glories  rest, 
Engraved  forever  in  each  grateful  breast ; 
A  monument  in  every  heart  will  rear, 
With  this  inscription, "  WASHINGTON  is  HERB."    . 


178 

But  I  proceed  to  pay  the  attention  due  to  the 
memory  of  another  distinguished  character ;  for  to 
what  is  America  more  indebted  than  to  the  gallant 
exertions  of  her  beloved  Greene,  in  whose  amiable 
character  the  great  soldier  and  the  good  citizen  are 
BO  conspicuously  blended  ?  Long  shall  this  country, 
in  particular,  retain  his  memory— long  as  the  pal 
metto,  that  emblematic  tree,  shall  flourish  in  Caro 
lina. 

To  thee,  oh  Greene  (  each  muse  her  tribute  pays, 
Gteaf;  chieftain !  crowned  with  never  fading  bays ; 
Thy  worth,  thy  country  ever  grateful  owns, 
Her  first  of  warriors,  and  her  best  of  sons. 

But  $ee  the  long  list !  upon  which  the  names  of 
Gates,  Lincoln,  the  brave  jStarke,  and  the  gallant 
Wayne,  are  conspicuously  lettered !  Men,  whose 
names  shall  descend  to  posterity  with  coeternal 
honor.  Among  them  shall  the  brave  Sullivan  be 
often  mentioned ;  and  the  name  of  St.  Clair,  though 
sullied  by  malign  censure,  will  shine  untarnished 
there ;  and  there  shall  the  venerable  name  of  Putnam 
be  fquad,  that  hoary  chieftain,  who 

> 

the  flame  of  battle  spread, 

When  fourscore  years  had  blanched  his  laureled  head. 


179 

But  there  is  no  end  of  this !  The  list  of  deserving 
characters  is  swelling  to  my  view,  and  I  shall  grow 
hoarse  in  repeating  it;  I  will  therefore  quit  the 
attempt,  and  hasten  to  conclude : 

For  should  I  strive  to  mention  every  name 
With  which  my  country  swells  the  list  of  fame. 
Amidst  the  labor  of  the  arduous  tale, 
My  time,  my  periods,  and  my  voice  would  fail. 

Previous  to  my  quitting  the  subject,  permit  me, 
gentlemen  of  South  Carolina,  to  observe  that  the 
very  man,  who  fills  the  seat  of  your  government  for 
the  present  year,  must  long  remain  high  in  his  coun 
try's  honors,  which  he  has  most  bravely  acquired. 
The  gallant  defense  of  Fort  Moultrie  will  decorate 
the  page  of  many  a  future  history,  and  give  immor 
tal  fame  at  once  to  the  hero  and  the  historian, 

And  now,  my  most  respected  auditors,  having  in 
some  measure  paid  our  debt  of  acknowledgment  to 
the  visible  authors  of  our  independence,  let  us  lay  our 
hands  upon  our  hearts,  in  humble  adoration  of  that 
Monarch,  who,  in  the  place  of  George  the  third,  was 
this  day  chosen  to  reign  over  us.  Let  us  venerate 
the  Great  Generalissimo  of  our  armies,  from  whom 
all  triumphs  flow ;  and  let  it  be  our  glory  that  not 


180 

George  the  third,  but  JEHOVAH  THE  FIRST  AND 
THE  LAST,  is  King  of  America — HE  who  dwelleth 
in  the  clouds,  and  whose  palace  is  the  heaven  of 
heavens :  for  independent  as  we  are  with  respect  to 
the  political  systems  of  this  world,  we  are  still  a  pro 
vince  of  the  great  kingdom,  and  fellow-subjects  with 
the  inhabitants  of  heaven. 


181 


CRITICAL   REMARKS,* 


OH  THE  WRITINGS  OF  THE  LATE  DR.  JOHNSON. 


NO.  I. 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  that  tinsel  splendor  of  language, 
Which  tome  writer*  perpetually  aflect.  It  is  well  if  this  could  be  ascribed  to 
the  real  overflowing  of  a  rich  imagination.  We  should  then  have  something 
to  amuse  us,  at  least,  if  we  found  little  to  instruct  us.  But  the  wont  is,  that 
with  those  frothy  writers,  it  is  a  luxuriancy  of  words,  not  of  fancy.  We 
see  a  labored  attempt  to  rise  to  a  splendor  of  composition,  of  which  they 
have  formed  to  themselves  soute  loose  idea ;  but  having  no  strength  of  genius 
for  attaining  it,  they  endeavor  to  supply  the  defect  by  cold  exclamations,  by 
commonplace  figures,  and  every  thing  that  has  the  appearance  of  pomp  and 
magnificence.  It  has  escaped  these  writers,  that  sobilety  in  ornament  is  one 
great  secret  for  rendering  it  plcoeing ;  and  that,  without  a  foundation  of  good 
sense  ami  solid  thought,  the  most  florid  style  to  but  a  childish  imposition  on  the 
public.  The  public,  however,  aru  but  too  apt  to  be  imposed  on  ;  at  least,  tho 
mob  of  renders,  who  arc  very  ready  to  be  caught,  at  first,  with  whatever  is 
dazzling  and  gaudy."— BLAIR. 

IP  to  have  his  works  read,  to  be  universally  ad 
mired,  to  be  praised  in  every  company,  and  blazoned 
in  every  compilation  of  literature,  form  the  happiness 
of  an  author ;  perhaps  none  ever  enjoyed  that  hap 
piness  in  a  greater  degree  than  Dr.  Johnson.  He  is 
now  dead,  and  the  swarms  of  writers,  who  during 
his  life  were  silenced  by  envy,  are  contending  which 
shall  be  loudest  in  his  praise.  The  newspapers  teem 


*  Published  in  the  Columbian  Herald. 
1G 


182 

with  anecdotes  of  Johnson ;  every  magazine  is  filled 
with  Dr.  Johnson.  He  is  culled  the  father  of  Eng 
lish  literature,  the  corrector  of  the  language,  and  the 
standard  writer  of  English  elegance.  The  baga 
telles  of  childhood,  and  the  trifles  of  youth,  become 
matters  of  importance,  when  dignified  by  his  name : 
and  every  composition,  however  trivial,  acquires  a 
seeming  sanction  from  the  popularity  of  Johnson. 

"  The  public,"  says  Dr.  Blair,  "  are  but  too  apt  to 
be  imposed  on  ;  at  least,  the.  mob  of  reader?,  who  are 
very  ready  to  be  caught,  at  first,  with  whatever  is 
dazzling  and  gaudy."  But  for  the  reasons  of  this 
elegant  writer,  we  should  be  partly  at  a  loss  to  ac 
count  for  the  number  of  pens  lately  brandished  in 
favor  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Much  of  his  present  pros 
perity,  however,  may  be  traced  to  another  source. 
He  was  a  voluminous  writer ;  and  his  works,  if  sala 
ble,  must  constitute  a  lucrative  item  in  the  stock  of  the 
booksellers.  It  is  to  the  interest  of  the  man,  whose 
shelves  are  filled  with  Ramblers,  Idlers,  unsold  dic 
tionaries,  and  heavy  criticisms,  to  be  liberal  to  hire 
ling  scribblers,  who,  by  reckless  puffs,  can  promote 
the  sale  of  his  goods.  This  is  undoubtedly  the  true 
secret  of  much  of  the  eulogium  now  passed  upon  the 
works  of  this  author,  It  is  a  mere  trick  of  trade. 


183 

But  where  are  the  abilities  of  Johnson  so  wonder 
fully  displayed  ?  Most  of  the  numbers  of  the  Ram 
bler  are  from  his  pen.  Try  to  converse  with  one  of 
his  admirers,  and  ho  is  perpetually  quoting  the  Ram 
bler.  Inquire  for  the  beauties  of  Johnson,  you  are 
,  directed  to  the  Rambler.  To  the  Rambler,  there 
fore,  as  to  his  opus  magmim}  we  direct  our  specula 
tions  ;  and  what  do  we  find '?  Some  originality  of 
thought,  certainly.  But  how  is  it  dressed  by  this 
corrector  of  the  language,  this  standard  of  English 
elegance  ?  In  a  swelled,  pompous,  bombastical  lan 
guage,  an  aflected  structure,  and  verbosity  of  style. 
I  said  bombastical  language — but  incorrectly.  Ilia 
style  is  heterogeneous,  and  he  may  be  said  to  have 
written  in  no  particular  language.  The  things  he 
calls  Ramblers  arc  composed  of  Greek  and  Latin 
word:*  with  English  terminations;  and -the  reader  of 
but  common  erudition  requires  a  dictionary  at  every 
sentence.  But  to  render  the  Rambler  intelligible, 
not  every  dictionary  will  serve ;  it  is  that  alone,  com 
piled  by  the  author  of  the  Rambler.  The  English 
language,  as  a  late  writer  judiciously  observes,  is  ab 
horrent  of  all  Latinisms,  which  are  not  introduced 
through  the  medium  of  the  French  tongue.  Dr. 
Johnson,  whose  works  are  filled  with  Latin  words 
and  Latin  idioms,  is  totally  regardless  of  French 


184 

derivations ;  for  with  the  French  language  he  was 
unfortunately  unacquainted.     But  his  Dictionary ! 
his  Dictionary  i  that  greatest  production  of  all  human 
genius !     As  a  philologist)  Dr.  Johnson  undoubtedly 
appears  to  great  advantage  in  his  Dictionary.    lie 
seems  to  be  well  acquainted  with  language.    But 
partiality  itself  must  own,  that  in  the  Greek  and 
Latin  tongues,  his  knowledge  appears  more  conspicu 
ous  than  in  English.     Wherever  he  enters  on  Eng 
lish  etymology,  his  work  is  full  of  blunders.   His 
Dictionary,  however,  possesses  great  merit.     John 
son  was  a  laborious  writer,  and  for  the  drudgery  of 
such  compilations,  he  was  peculiarly  fitted.     It  is 
however  remarkable  of  this  work,  that  it  contains  all 
the  foreign  eccentric  words  of  which  his  Rambler 
and  other  writings  are  composed ;  differing  in  this 
particular  alone  from  the  dictionaries  which  had  gone 
before  him.    People  have  hence  been  led  to  imagine, 
that  "  he  wrote  his  Rambler  to  make  a  Dictionary 
necessary;  and  compiled  his  Dictionary  to  render 
the  Rambler  intelligible."    It  is  a  work  entirely  void 
of  system,  destitute  of  any  original  plan,  except  the 
addition  of  a  very  faulty  grammar.    Hence,  it  can 
never  be  named  with  those  compilations,  elegantly 
original,  of  a  Kenrick,  or  a  Sheridan.    And  without 
heresy  in  literature,  we  may  venture  to  predict  that 


185 

the  dictionaries  of  those  gentlemen  will  be  resorted 
to,  when  that  of  Samuel  Johnson  shall  be  no  more 
remembered.  Nay,  more ;  we  may  assert  with  con 
fidence,  that  the  works  of  Tillotson  and  Boling- 
broke,  of  Robinson  and  Blair,  will  remain  the  stan 
dard  of  English  elegance,  when  the  turgid  Ram 
blers,  with  all  their  shining  tinsel,  are  whelmed,  and 
buried  in  everlasting  oblivion. 

It  is  now  some  time  since  Dr.  Johnson  usurp 
ed  the  literary  throne,  while  poets  and  critics, 
scribblers  of  every  denomination,  and  scribblers  of 
no  denomination,  united  in  his  praise.  Men  of 
real  genius  were  imposed  on  by  the  shout  of 
popularity,  and  mingled  in  the  torrent  of  applause. 
At  that  time,  the  English  Lexiplmnes  was  at  the 
.  acme  of  his  literary  fame :  but  that  notable  produc 
tion,  the  Biographical  Prefaces,  made  no  very  favor- 
ble  impressions  for 'him.  The  eyes  of  men  were 
now  opened  ;  and  they  no  longer  beheld  Dr.  John 
son  as  the  paragon  of  English  literature.  The 
pride,  arrogance,  and  illiberality,  which  characterized 
that  work,  will  be  an  everlasting  stain  upon  the 
memory  of  its  author.  We  need  only  mention  the 
critique  on  Milton,  to  be  convinced  of  this.  That 
performance  discovers  at  once  the  little  soul,  and  the 


1C1 


166 

deficient  genius,  replete  with  all  the  ignorance,  ill 
nature,  and  illiberality  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

The  swelled,  bombastic  style  succeeds  with  the 
lower  class  of  readers,  who  are  by  far  the  most  nu 
merous.    Hence,  every  writer,  who  is  deficient  in 
real  genius,  will  affect  pomposity,  and  magnificence 
of  language.    It  gives  him  popularity ;  and  popu 
larity  is  the  food  of  authors.    It  is  that  for  which 
every  writer,  from  the  heroic  poet  to  the  critical 
scribbler,  is  eagerly  contending;  and  the  influence' 
of  this  popularity,   upon  the  herd  of  imitators,  is 
almost  beyond  conception.     The  pious  Hervey  was 
a  writer  of  this  class ;  destitute  of  genius,  he  endea 
vored  to  supply  its  place,  by  a  poetical  style,  an 
affected,  stiff,  and  verbose  diction.     Ilervey  has  his 
followers.     Dr.  Johnson  was  a  writer  of  rather  more 
genius,  and  a  greater  share  of  popularity.    He  was 
on  that  account  the  most  dangerous ;  and  we  ac 
cordingly   find,  that  of  all.  modern  perversions  of 
taste,  the  works  of  Johnson  have  done  the  greatest 
mischief.    It  must  however  be  confessed,  that  in  the 
works  of  this  author,  amidst  the  Gothic  cloud  of  lan 
guage,  much  originality  is  found.    Let  us  give  him 
credit  for  every  feeble  ray  of  genius ;  but  for  God's 
Bake  do  not  prostitute  the  august  appellations  of 
FATHER  op  LITERATURE,  and  STANDARD  op 


187 


ELEGANCE,  upon  that  surly  critic,  who  is  the  per- 
verter  of  taste,  and  the  corrupter  of  the  language, 


NO.  II. 


"  E-t  in  quibusdam  turba  inanium  verborum,  qui  dum  communem  ioquen* 
di  moreui  reform idant,  due ti  specie  aitoris,  circuuicunt  omnia  copiosa  loqua- 
citate  qua  diccre  volant."— QIUMCTILUH,  lib.  vii.  cap.  2. 


THE  general  depravation  of  style,  which  distin 
guishes  so  many  English  writers  of  modern  date, 
must  afford  matter  of  serious  alarm  to  the  real  phi 
lologist.  By  men  of  the  first  reputation,  has  sound 
.  been  substituted  for  sense,  and  tinsel  for  ornament. 
And  we  may  anticipate  a  melancholy  period,  when 
the  original  end  of  writing  shall  be  known  only  by 
the  historic  page.  It  is  true,  there  are  still  writers, 
who  consider  the  communication  of  ideas  as  a  pri 
mary  object ;  but  by  .far  the  greater  number  are 
absorbed  in  the  structure  of  sentences.  We  may 
call  them  the  style-lnilders  of  the  age.  Their 
manner  is  loose,  florid,  and  pompous,  to  the  last  de 
gree.  Their  sentences  are  filled  with  sounding  epi 
thets,  and  rounded  into  periods  of  the  greatest  har 
mony  ;  but  look  not  in  their  works,  gentle  reader, 
for  ideas ;  the  hapless  authors  never  possessed  them. 


188 

The  celebrated  Hervey  appears  to  be  the  leader  of 
the  florid ;  Dr.  Johnson  of  the  bombastic  style. 
They  have  both  had  their  share  in  the  perversion  of 
taste,  and  our  present  manner  seems  a  compound  of 
both.  I  have  formerly  mentioned  Hervey,  with 
perhaps  too  much  severity,. as  a  writer  of  no  genius. 
The  sallies  of  imagination,  which  are  sometimes 
found  in  his  works,  have  occasioned  me  in  some 
measure  to  retract  that  opinion.  His  genius  is,  not 
withstanding,  trivial  and  cold ;  his  manner  perfectly 
disgusting.  He  is  followed  by  a  mob  of  admirers, 
and  the  vulgar  take  pleasure  in  his  style.  But  the 
crowd  of  epithets,  the  pompous  affectation,  the  tinsel 
description,  and  the  continued  swell  of  turgid,  poet 
ical  diction,  though  dazzling  to  the  vulgar,  is 
intolerable  to  the  reader  of  real  taste. 

"All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay." 

The  great  secret  of  writing,  as  in  painting,  seems 
to  consist  in  a  regular  and  proper  disposition  of  orna 
ment.  The  painter  could  not  be  acknowledged  an 
artist,  without  a  proper  knowledge  of  lights  and 
shades.  Nor  is  it  possible  for  the  writer,  who  is 
always  on  stilts,  to  be  otherwise  than  tedious  and 
disgusting.  The  Greek  and  Roman  orators  were  so 


189 

sensible  of  this  important  secret,  that  in  their  public 
declamations,  they  descended  frequently  to  the  mean 
est  style.  By  this  means,  they  gave  more  strength 
to  every  emphatical  passage ;  commanded  more  pa 
thos  ;  and  made  their  conspicuous  ornaments,  where 
^  ornaments  were  requisite,  appear  to  the  greatest  ad 
vantage.  Dr.  Johnson  (setting  aside 'his  great 
popularity)  was  a  more  dangerous  writer  than  Her- 
vey.  Hervey  gave  an  example  for  bad  style ;  John 
son  corrupted  the  language.  Though  Hervey  was 
faulty  in  manner,  yet  his  matter  was  generally 
English ;  but  it  would  puzzle  an  (Edipus  to  discover 
the  language  of  Johnson.  Hervey  decorates  the 
most  awful  subjects  with  a  florid,  poetical* style; 
while  Johnson  stalks  amidst  triilcs,  in  all  the  ma 
jesty  of  bombast.  Critics  have  been  ever  of  opinion, 
that  frivolous  subjects  require  a  light,  gay  manner. 
Custom  has  established  the  rule,  and  it  has  been 
sanctioned  by  writers  of  the  first  character.  But 
Johnson's  bagatelles  are  dressed  in  the  dignity  of 
metaphysics.  That  pedantic  genius  treats  of  the 
toilet  and  tea-table,  in  the  same  stiff,  solemn  man 
ner  with  Descartes,  explaining  the  nature  and 
seat  of  the  soul;  and  his  periodical  Ramblers,  like 
the  voyages  of  Aboulsaouris,  are  all  "  great,  magnifi 
cent,  and  unintelligible."  From  the  union  of. the 


V  100 

* 
» .  « 

florid  and  bombastic  manner  is  formed  the  style, 
which  at  present  obtains.  This  we  would  choose  to 
call,  by  way  of  distinction,  the  frothy  manner ;  and 
is  what  modern  writers  have  in  idea,  when  they 
speak  of  a  sublime  style—a  style  as  far  different 
from  sublimity  in  writing,  as  tinsel  is  different  from 
bullion ;  or  as  a  mock- majesty  of  the  theatre  differs 
from  the  grandeur  of  imperial  magnificence.  The 
pestiferous  writings  of  Johnson,  Hcrvcy,  Akenside, 
Shaftesbury,  and  other  frothy  writers,  have  intro 
duced  this  false  sublime ;  have  perverted  our  taste ; 
corrupted  our  style ;  and  weakened,  by  the  glitter  of 
false  ornaments,  the  native  energy  of  true  English 
manner.  There  is  a  certain  species  of  composition, 
which  has  not  a  little  assisted  in  the  introduction  of 
this  corrupt  taste.  This  species  comprehends  all 
productions,  in  whut  is  called  the  oriental  style. 
This  consists  of  a  forced,  unnatural  idiom,  swelled 
with  epithets,  similes,  and  the  most  florid  description : 
but  is  no  more  the  oriental  manner,  than  the  style  in 
which  I  am  at  present  writing ;  for  the  language  of 
eastern  writers  is  the  language  of  simplicity  itself. 

The  celebrated  Dr,  Blair  has  very  clearly  marked 
the  difference  of  true  and  false  sublime.  A  long 
quotation  from  his  lectures  will  require  no  apology, 
fa  it  is  judicious  and  entertaining ;  and  at  the  same 


191 

time  throws  a  strong  light  upon  what  I  have  hefore 
advanced.  "  As  for  what  is  called  the  sublime  style," 
says  the  doctor,  "  it  is  for  the  most  part,  a  very  bad 
one,  and  has  no  relation  whatever  to  the  real  sublime. 
Persons  are  apt  to  imagine  that  magnificent  words, 
accumulated  epithets,  and  a  certain  swelling  kind  of 
expression,  by  rising  above  what  is  usual  or  vulgar, 
contributes  to,  or  even  forms,  the  sublime.  Nothing 
can  be  more  false.  In  all  instances  of  sublime  wri 
ting,  which  I  have  given,  nothing  of  this  kind  ap 
pears.  'God  said,  Let  there  be' light,  and  there  was 
light.'  This  is  striking  and  sublime.  But  put  it 
into  what  is  commonly  called  the  sublime  style: 
1  The  Sovereign  Arbiter  of  nature,  by  the  potent  en 
ergy  of  a  single  word,  commanded  the  light  to  ex 
ist  ;'  and  as  Boileau  has  well  observed,  the  style 
indeed  is  raised,  but  the  thought  is  fallen.  In  gene 
ral,  in  all  good  writing,  the  sublime  lies  in  the 
thought,  not  in  words ;  and  when  the  thought  is 
truly  noble,  it  will,  for  the  most  part,  clothe  itself  in 
a  native  dignity  of  language.  The  sublime,  indeed, 
rejects  mean,  low,  or  trivial  expressions ;  but  it  is 
eqally  an  enemy  to  such  as  are  turgid.  The  main 
secret  of  being  sublime,  is  to  say  great  things  in  few 
and  plain  words.  It  will  be  found  to  hold,  without 


192 

exception,  that  the  most  sublime  authors  are  the 
simplest  in  their  style ;  and  wherever  you  find  a  wri 
ter,  who  affects  a  more  than  ordinary  pomp  and 
parade  of  words,  and  is  always  endeavoring  to 
magnify  his  subjects  by  epithets,  there  you  may  im 
mediately  suspect,  that  feeble  in  sentiment,  he  is 
studying  to  support  himself  by  mere  expressions." 
Thus  far  Dr.  Blair.  Mr.  Burgoyne,  a  gentleman 
better  distinguished  by  his  pen  than  his  sword,  has 
attempted  to  introduce  this  false  sublime  into  the 
business  of  common  life.  The  language  of  the  bar, 
noted  as  a  dry  jargon,  shines  in  his  page,  with  epi 
thets,  similes,  metaphors,  and  all  the  glitter  of  the 
frothy  style.  But  of  all  productions  in  the  sublime 
style,  nothing,  for  sublimity  of  nonsense,  exceeds 
his  famous  proclamation.  "In  consciousness  of 
Christianity,  my  royal  master's  clemency,  and  the 
honor  of  soldiership,  I  have  dwelt  upon  this  invi 
tation  ;  and  wished  fur  more  persuasive  terms  to 
give  it  impression."  What  rotundity  of  period! 
What  beauty  of  expression  is  here!  A  fox,  coming 
into  a  carver's  shop,  was  struck  with  admiration, 
at  a  head  the  artist  had  just  finished.  "  Beautiful 
head!"  exclaimed  the  fox,  "what  pity  is  it,  that 
thou  art  destitute  of  brains !" 


193 

This  false  taste,  like  an  epidemic  contagion,  has 
infected  the  whole  system  of  literature.  Few  are 
the  writers  of  eminence,  who  have  been  able  to  avoid 
its  influence.  To  stem  the  torrent  of  popular  ap 
plause,  requires  a  degree  of  fortitude  almost  super 
human  ;  a  fortitude  with  which  authors  are  seldom 
acquainted.  The  correct,  the  elegant  Robinson— 
with  sorrow  we  are  obliged  to  observe — is  not  un 
tainted.  Even  he  has,  in  some  instances,  given  us 
examples  of  false  ornament.  But  may  the  eye  of 
criticism  be  ever  partial  to  his  failings ;  for  with  him 
our  language  shall  live,  when  the  authors  of  Ram 
blers,  and  Meditations,  shall  slumber  in  oblivion. 
At  present,  this  alarming  revolution  of  our  taste 
seems  to  be  making  hasty  strides  in  common  life. 
There  are  few  readers,  who  think  a  writer  tolerable, 
that  is  not  magnificent.  Overseers  write  florid  let 
ters  to  their  employers ;  and  men  in  business  publish 
sublime  advertisements. 

P.  S.  The  author,  who  thinks  and  writes  "  invi- 
ta  Minerva,"  is  not  without  his  fame.  But  he 
who,  blessed  with  real  genius,  affects  an  elegance  of 
style,  will  bo  read  with  admiration.  As  the  writer 
of  these  remarks  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
he  begs  the  reader's  indulgence,  if,  while  he  cen- 
17 


194 

sures  the  style  of  others,  his  own  be  found  deficient. 
He  begs  leave  to  observe,  once  for  all,  that  his  pro- 
ductions  appear  in  their  rudest  form.  Unpolished 
by  the  linicb  labor,  they  are  submitted  to  the 
public  eye,  "with  all  their  imperfections  on  their 
heads" 


195 


AN    ESSAY, 


ON  1'iUMi  1 1 VL,  LATENT,  AND  BKQBNB&JLTfiD  LIGHT.    . 

la  which  it  is  attempted,  upon  original  principles,  to  ac 
count  for  every  luminous  phenomenon,  the  light  of  flame, 
the  phosphoric  glow,  and  the  sparkling  of  the  ocean.  ' 

LIGHT  is  an  element  with  which  every  one, 
blessed  with  the  faculty  of  seeing,  is  so  well  ac 
quainted,  that  to  him  it  needs  no  description :  to  such 
as  are  unfortunately  sightless  it  will  admit  of  none. 
The  other  organs  of  sense  convey  no  similar  percep 
tions  to  the  mind,  from  which,  by  analogy  of  sensa 
tion,  the  unhappy  blind  man  may  obtain  its  most 
distant  idea :  and,  however  the  world  may  have  been 
deluded  by  fictitious  narrative,  it  is  a  certain  truth 
that  blind  men  cannot  distinguish  the  complexion  of 
bodies  by  the  most  accurate  touch.*  To  a  person 
born  blind,  a  conception  even  of  visible  form  is  abso 
lutely  impossible ;  and  such  a  person,  by  handling 
and  rehandling  any  body,  can  no  more  conjecture  in 


*  Several  instances  are  on  record,  of  persons  who  have 
pretended  to  distinguish  colors  by  feeling  only. 


196 

what  shape  it  appears  to  the  eye,  than  a  deaf  man, 
by  tasting  of  gunpowder,  can  describe  the  sound  of 
a  cannon.  Had  .you  asked  the  most  ignorant 
blockhead  of  antiquity,  what  is  light?  he  would 
have  resolved  you  in  a  moment,  and  would  doubtless 
have  pitied  the  weakness  which  gave  birth  to  so  silly 
a,  question.  "Before  I  became  a  philosopher,"  you 
might  reply,  "I  was,  sir,  as  knowing  as  yourself; 
but  alas  !  the  more  I  learn,  the  less  I  know."  The  . 
philosopher  with  diffidence  attempts  the  Gordian 
web,  and  finding  no  clue,  becomes  puzzled ;  he  sits 
down  confounded,  and  laments  his  feeble  abilities. 
The  child  of  ignorance  advances,  resolved  to  sur 
mount  all  difficulties ;  he  severs  the  knot  with  a 
blow,  looks  round  him  with  satisfaction,  and  exults 
with  a  seeming  consciousness  of  superior  wisdom. 
But  the  knot  is  still  untied ;  the  first  principles 
remain  yet  unexplored,  and  the  intelligence  of  man 
is  all  too  feeWe  for  the  great  investigation. 

"  The  ways  of  Heaven  are  dark  and  intricate; 
Puzzled  with  mazes,  and  perplexed  with  errors, 
Our  understanding  traces  them  in  vain, 
Nor  sees  with  how  much  art  the  windings  run, 
Nor  where  the  regular  confusion  ends."* 

*  Addison. 


197 

"  Let  there  be  light,"  was  the  fiat  of  JEHOVAH  at 
the  creation.  "  Let  there  he  light,  and  light  there 
was,"  says  the  sublime  historian.  From  that  mo 
ment  all  things  shone  by  this  reflected  element, 
which  gave  visibility  of  form  and  variety  of  com 
plexion  to  the  whole  created  universe.  Still,  light 
was  but' very  little  known.  The  doctrine  of  colors, 
of  phosphcri,  and  indeed  the  whole  philosophy  of 
vision,  remained  for  some  thousands  of  years  unno 
ticed.  At  length,  Newton  arose,  that  superior  intel 
ligence,  formed  to  explore  nature  in  every  explorable 
path,  lie  gave  us  the  theory  of  vision,  and  taught 
us  the  doctrine  of  colors.  He  was  the  first  of  mor 
tals  who  attempted  to  divide  light,  the  infinitely 
subtile  light ;  and,  strange  truth !  by  mechanical 
separation,  he  discovered  and  demonstrated  its.  con 
stituent  parts. 

There  are  two  general  propositions,  which  in  the 
course  of  this  essay,  we  shall  endeavor  to  prove ; 
and  on  the  strength  of  the  probable  evidence  brought 
in  their  favor,  all  the  subsequent  doctrine  will  de 
pend.     1.   That  light  i.i  an  elementary  principle, 
entering  and  uniting  with  most  bodies  by  simple 
attraction^  or  the  affinity  of  composition,  and  ca 
pable  of  being  regenerated  by  decomposition*    2. 
That  all  light,  wherever  found,  and  however  pro* 
17* 


198 

•duced,  is  essentially  the  same,  and  is  always  ori 
ginally  solar,  or  derived  from  the  sun.  Light  is 
denied  to  be  an  element  by  some,  because  it  is  divisi 
ble  by  the  prism  into  parts  that  arc  not  similar.  But 
by  this  reasoning,  we  shall  quickly  destroy  the 
arrangement  of  our  elementary  principles.  The 
more  refined  chemistry  has  taught  us  that  the  ele- 
.  ment  of  air  is  not  a  simple  homogeneous  principle, 
but  a  fluid  composed  of  dissimilar  parts.  The  ele 
ment  of  earth,  too,  has  been  found  divisible  into  six 
different  kinds,  which  have  never  yet  been  decom 
pounded  into  more  simple,  nor  changed  into  one 
another.*  Are  there  then  six:  elements  of  earth  ?  I 
answer,  that  all  earths  may  be  reduced  to  the  first 
principle  of  acid  coagulated  by  water ;  and  by  that 
reasoning,  earth  can  be  no  element  at  all.  Let  us 
not  dispute  about  words.  If  among  the  Aristotelic 
principles^  air,  earth,  lire,  arid  water,  the  two  former 
be  admitted  as  elements,  the  important  principle  of 
light  has  a  claim  founded  in  equal  propriety,  and 
ought  by  no  means  to  bo  rejected.  Here  then  I 


*  1.  The  earth  of  the  ponderous  spar ;  2.  caldarious  earth  ; 
3.  magnesia;  4.  clay;  5..silicious  earth;  0.  earth  of  gems. 
These  earths,  by  professor  Bergman,  arc  styled  earths 
primitive. 


199 

!  .  '     •         • 

adopt  my  "grand  proposition.  Light  is  a  real  ele 
mentary  principle^  which  pervades^  is  blended 
with}  and  becomes  a  constituent  part  of  almost  all 
visible  substances.  By  the  subt  ihy  of  its  parts,  the 
impetus  of  its  rays,  and  the  absorption  of  bodies,  it 
enters  into  the  composition  of  animals,  of  vegeta 
bles,  and  of  substances  unorganized,  and  becomes 
the  only  inflammable  principle  in  them  all.  This 
inflammable  principle  must  not  be  confounded  with 
heat,  or  with  fire.  Bodies  which  contain  neither  of 
these,  may  contain  light  in  the  greatest  abundance ; 
for  instance,  nitre,  the  coldest  and  most  inflammable 
substance  in  all  nature.  Light  will  pass  through 
many  bodies  without  remaining  in  them,  as  glass, 
shallow  water,  and  all  transparent  substances.  By 
the  impetus  of  its  rays,  it  enters  many  bodies  with 
out  mixing,  and  passes  olF  without  decomposing 
them;  as  we  may  see,  for  instance,  in  wood,  in 
stones,  in  earth,  in  luminous  phosphori,  and  in  ocean- 
water.  But  wherever  it  comes  into  contact  with  any 
substance  to  which  it  is  attracted,  and  for  which  it 
has  a  peculiar  affinity,  it  then  forms  a  close  union, 
becomes  a;  .component  part,  and  can  never  again  be 
separated,  without  a  decomposition  of  the  whole. 

When  certain  substances  are  decomposed  by  fire, 
the  light  which  they  contained  resumes  its  elasticity, 


200 

and  passes  off  in  its  original  form.  Such  substances 
are  said  to  flame ;  and  this  property  is  termed  inflam 
mability,  or  the  principle  of  combustion.  Inflam 
mability  then,  wherever  we  meet  with  it,  is  nothing 
more  than  solar  light  become  latent  by  its  union 
with  terrene  substances.  It  enters  the  earth,  unites 
with  improper  acid,  and  forms  nitre ;  combined  with 
a  portion  of  phlegm,  it  constitutes  the  fat  of  animals ; 
and  we  trace  its  existence  through  the  vegetable 
kingdom  in  spirit  and  in  oil.  Both  of  these  are 
equally  irrflammable ;  and  the  only  distinction  is, 
that  the  essential  qjl  of  vegetables  appears  to  be  like 
animal  oil,  a  composition  of  latent  light  and  of  gross 
phlegm  intimately  united ;  while  the  more  subtile 
spirit  is  constituted  of  light  and  aerial  acid. 

The  powerful  action  of  light  on,  and  its  intimate 
union  with,  the  animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral 
kingdoms,  may  appear  chimerical  to  such  as  do  not 
observe  that  daily  experience  is  a  daily  demonstra 
tion  of  this  fact.  This  demonstration  is  most  stri 
kingly  remarkable  in  the  vegetable  kingdom.  It  is 
well  known  that  most  plants  sleep  in  the  night  sea 
son,  that  is,  their  leaves  droop,  and  their  flowers  shut 
up.  This,  together  with  that  remarkable  property 


201 

termed  vegetable  instinct,  has  been  proved*  to  depend 
on  the  privation  of  light.  The  vegetable  green,  too, 
is  caused  not  by  a  simple  reflection  of  light  from,  but 
its  intimate  union  with,  the  vegetable  composition.  All 
this  is  deducible  from  experiment.  Let  the  seeds  of 
any  plant  be  scattered  in  darkness,  on  earth  destitute 
of  nitre ;  let  no  light  ever  approach  it ;  when  the 
plant  has  acquired  its  full  growth,  examine  it  and 
you  will  find  it  white,  watery,  subackl,  and  unin 
flammable.  It  will  appear  slender,  and  its  leaves  will 
droop  as  if  in  a  state  of  perpetual  repose.  Analyze 
it,  and  you  will  obtain  water,  salt,  phlegm,  and  a 
little  acid,  but  neither  oil  nor  spirit.  Another  plant 
of  the  same  species,  by  being  barely  exposed  to  the 
light,  will  grow  straight  and  vigorous,  appear  of  a 
lively  green,  yield  both  oil  and  spirit,  and  be  highly 
inflammable. 

Solar  light,  and  artificial  light  or  flame,  appear  then 
to  be  essentially  the  same  principle.  Let  us  illus 
trate  this  by  a  familiar  example.  A  certain  piece  of 
ground,  we  will  suppose,  absorbs  the  luminous  rays 
in  great  abundance.  If  the  ground  be  sandy,  if  it 
contain  not  that  salt  or  acid,  for  which  light  has  so 


*  Sec  the  sleep  of  plants  considered  by  Dr.  Hill,  and  the 
experiments  of  the  ingenious  M,  Ingenhousz. 


202 

close  an  affinity,  the  rays  will  suffer  no  detention, 
but  pass  off  unaltered.  If,  on  the  contrary,  the 
earth  abounds  with  the  proper  principle,  the  absorbed 
light  will  closely  unite  with  it,  and  form  inflammable 
nitre.  This  nitre  may  then  be  chemically  extracted, 
and  decomposed  by  means  of  heat;  and  at  the 
instant  of  this  decomposition,  the  concentrated  light 
will  rush  forth,  resume  its  elasticity,  and  pass  off  in 
a  flash.  This  seems  to  be  the  most  simple  state  of 
union  between  solar  light  and  terrene  substance.  In 
such  land  as  this,  rich  with  the  accumulated  store 
which  we  must  no  longer  call  light,  the  industrious 
farmer  sows  his  corn.  In  tracing  the  process  of 
vegetation  from  the  early  germ  to  the  plant  at  matu 
rity,  we  observe  that  the  corn  acquires  its  growth 
and  vigor  from  the  nitrous  earth  at  its  root,  and  the 
light  which  it  absorbs  and  assimilates  into  its  sub 
stance  above.  Hence,  it  becomes  replete  with  those 
grand  principles  of  nutrition,  oil  and  sugar.  It  is 
devoured  in  this  state  by  the  lowing  steer.  The 
essential  oil,  and  the  saccharine  spirit  enter  the  ani- 
mal  composition,  and  become  fat ;  from  whence  tal 
low  is  formed.  If  this  tallow  be  moulded  into  can 
dles,  and  the  wick  of  one  of  them  be  held  in  the 
neighborhood  of  fire,  the  particles  of  the  candle  will 
be  decomposed  by  the  heat,  and  the  hitherto  latent 


203 

concentrated  light,  as  it  becomes  elastic,  will  fly  off 
with  its  original  appearance.  This  phenomenon 
will  continue  till  the  decomposition  has  wholly  taken 
place ;  or,  in  other  words,  till  the  candle  is  burnt  out. 

1 

Hence,  the  flame  of  a  candle,  and  every  other  lumi 
nous  flame,  though  considered  by  the  vulgar  as  a 
different  species  of  light,  will,  to  the  philosopher  who 
has  traced  the  varying  process,  appear  to  be  what  it 
really  is,  absolute  regenerated  sunshine. 

We  have  now  proved,  as  far  as  the  proposition  is 
capable  of  proof,  that  light  is  an  elementary  princi 
ple,  which  enters  the  composition  of  almost  all  com 
pounded  substances.     We    have  shown  in  what 
manner  such  substance  is  said  to  flame,    when 
bodies,  by  the  presence  of  heat,  suffer  a  decomposi 
tion  of  parts,  and  the  latent  light  becomes  again 
visible.    We  shall  now  enter  on  our  second  proposi 
tion,  that  all  light  is  essentially  the  same,  and  is 
always,  in  its  original  state,  solar,  or  derived 
from  the  sun.    So  much  of  this  proposition  as 
respects  combustible    matter  has,  we  trust,  been 
already  proved :  but  as  many  substances,  viz.  tho 
luminous  phosphori,  are  found  to  emit  light,  although 
they  possess  no  inflammability,  it  remains  that  we 
demonstrate  how  those  substances  become  luminous 
by  means  of  the  solar  ray.    The  rays  of  light  are 


204 

propelled  from  the  sun  in  lines  physically  straight ; 
and  they  possess  the  greatest  velocity*  of  any  mate 
rial  principle  known — flying  nearly  thirteen  millions 
of  miles  in  a  minute.  Whether  this  velocity  de 
pends  on  the  inherent  energy  of  the  sun,  or  is 
caused  by  a  mutual  repellency  of  the  luminous  par 
ticles  may  be  questioned.  I  adopt  the  latter  opinion 
because  it  appears  the  most  probable.  This  mutual 
repellency  may  be  demonstrated,  and  of  itself  is  all- 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  velocity  of  light.  If  a 
hundred  large  candles  were  lighted  in  a  room  ten 
feet  square,  they  would  fill  it  with  rays,  which  would 
cause  a  strong  reflection  from  the  surrounding  walls. 
In  this  case  the  room  is  full  of  light.  As  there  are 
a  thousand  cubic  feet  to  be  illuminated,  the  light  of 
each  candle  must  be  supposed  to  illuminate  a  sphere 
of  only  ten  cubic  feet  in  diameter.  But  if  you 
remove  ninety-nine  of  the  candles,  the  remaining 
one  will  now  occupy  a  thousand  cubic  feet,  and  the 
room  will  be  still  full  of  light.  Nay,  if  you  expose 


*  Although  the  element  of  solar  light  possesses  the  least 
perceptible  weight,  yet  the  amazing  velocity  of  13,000,000 
of  miles  in  a  minute,  must  give  it  a  momentum  capable  of 
driving  through  the  hardest  bodies,  and  penetrating  the  far, 
thest  recesses  of  the  earth,  did  the  pores  run  in  straight 
lines. 


205 

the  same  candle  to  the  open  air,  ita  light  will  be 
seen  at  two  miles  distance.  So  that  the  same  light, 
which  was  compressed  within  the  space  of  ten  cubic 
feet,  is  now  by  the  mutual  repulsion  of  its  particles 
diffused  into  a  sphere  of  four  miles  diameter  :*  and 
this  it  so  completely  fills,  that  you  cannot  place  a 
pin's  head  any  where  in  that  sphere  without  receiv 
ing  some  particles  of  light.  Hence,  we  take  it  as 
demonstrated,  that  the  particles  of  light  are  possessed 
of  mutual  repulsion,  by  which  they  are  always  en 
deavoring  to  extend  themselves  every  way. 

This  point  established,  I  proceed  to  observe,  that 
the  luminous  phosphori,  which  we  are  now  con 
sidering,  almost  universally  emit  their  light  without 
suffering  a  decomposition  of  parts,  and  only  in  the 
absence  of  the  solar  ray.  Several  of  them,  as  the 
Bolonian  stone,  have  been  long  suspected  of  absorb 
ing  the  sun's  rays,  and  emitting  them  in  darkness. 
But  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon  has  never  been 
satisfactorily  investigated,  by  any  author  that  I  have 
met  with.  It  was  observed  under  the  first  proposi 
tion,  that  there  are  some  bodies  which  receive  and 
transmit  the  radiant  light.  It  passes  through  them 
with  ease,  and  suffers  no  detention.  This  is  owing 


*  See  Dr.  Newentyit's  Religioui  Philosopher. 
18 


206  ( 

to  the  large  rectilineal  pores  of  such  bodies.    The 
swift  darting  rays  meet  with  little  resistance  on  their 
surfaces,  and  are  consequently,  but  little  reflected  from 
them ;  but  they  are  driven  through  their  pores  with 
the  greatest  facility,  and  give  to  such  bodies  the  pro 
perty  of  transparency ;  such  are  glass,  shallow  wa-    ' 
ter,  &c.     There  are  other  bodies  equally  capable  of 
receiving  light ;  but  their  pores  not  being  rectilineal, 
they  possess  not  the  property  of  transmitting  it. 
Now  if  such  bodies  have  no  affinity  with  or  attrac 
tion  of  light,  this  element  will  not  mix  with  them, 
as  we  observed  of  inflammable  substances ;  but  will    ',  / 
remain  imprisoned  no  longer  than  while  the  force     ' 
which  impelled  it  into  tljeir  interstices  remains  ;  or, 
in  other  words,  wnile  there  is  light  on  their  surfaces.  | 

To  make  this  as  familiar  as  possible,  suppose  the 
Bolonian  stone  introduced  into  a  room  full  of  dense 
light.  This  light,  by  its  mutual  repeliency,  is  en 
deavoring  to  extend  itself  every  way ;  and  a  number  i 
of  its  particles  are,  by  that  repeliency,  forced  into  the 
vacuities  of  the  stone.  The  dense  rays  which  im 
pelled  these  particles  into  the  stone,  now,  by  the  same 
repeliency  continued,  act  as  a  pressure  on  its  surface, 
to  prevent  their  escaping.  But  remove  this  pressure, 
or,  in  other  words,  carry  the  stone  into  darkness,  and  * 
you  will  find  that  the  particles  of  light  imprisoned  in 


207 

ils  interstices,  being  no  longer  repelled  by  dense  light 
on  its  surface,  endeavor  by  their  own  mutual  rcpel- 
lency  to  extend  themselves  every  way,  and  issue  from 
all  parts  of  the  stone  with  the  appearance  of  flame. 
Hence,  two  forces  are  to  bo  considered  as  acting 
against  each  other ;  namely,  a  vis  repcllcndi,  of 
.    external  light  impelling  certain  luminous  particles 
into  the  pores  of  the  stone,  and  there  detaining 
them  ;  and  a  vis  elastlca*  of  the  imprisoned  parti 
cles  endeavoring  to  recover  their  situation,  and  ex? 
tend  themselves  every  way.     Hunce,  we  easily  con- 
•ceive  why  phosphoric  bodies  emit  no  light  in  the  day 
time ;  because  the  force  of  repulsion,  which  drives 
the  particles  of  light  into  their  pores,  still  detains 
them  there  by  its  continued  action  upon  their  sur 
faces.'    We  also  conceive  why  they  shine  in  the 
night  season  ;  because  the  repulsive  force  of  external 
light  being  taken  off  from  their  surfaces,  the  impri 
soned  light  extends  itself  every  way,  resumes  its 
elasticity,  and  rushes  forth  with  its  original  appear 
ance. 


*  These  two  forces  depend  on  ono  principle,  viz.  repul 
sion,  and  are  in  effect  the  same — distinguished  as  above  for 
the  sake  of  perspicuity  only. 


208 

The  above  reasoning  will  equally  apply  to  all 
kinds  of  the  luminous  phosphori,*  and  demonstrates 
the  second  general  proposition,  that  all  light  is  essen 
tially  the  same ;  that  it  is  real  sunshine,  wherever 
met  with,  and  differs  only  by  variety  of  circum 
stance. 

I  shall  now  make  some  miscellaneous  remarks, 
which  may  serve  still  farther  to  elucidate  what  has 
been  said ;  and  attempt,  upon  principles  established, 
to  account  for  several  phenomena  of  light  and  colors. 
Dr.  Henry  Moycs,  a  man  of  great  ingenuity,  and 
who  deserves  tlie  highest  praise  for  his  attempts  to 
dispense  the  soul-illuminating  ray,  was  himself  un 
happily  sightless.  This  misfortune  led  him  into 
several  erroneous  notions  respecting  light.  His  cata- 
.logue  of  luminous  phosphori  contains  several  sub 
stances  not  at  all  phosphoric.  Snow  may  be  men 
tioned  as  one  of  them.  This  substance  does  not,  as 
the  doctor  supposes,  imbibe  the  sun's  rays  by  day, 
and  emit  them  at  night.  It  is  certain,  that  snow  is 


*  The  electric  flash  is  not  here  included,  although  it 
might  be  demonstrated  to  be  dependent  on  the  same  princi 
ple,  would  the  bounds  allotted  to  this  essay  permit.  It  shall 
be  mentioned  elsewhere. 


209 

visible  at  night,  when  other  substances  are  not ;  but 
this  arises  only  from  the  disposition  of  its  parts,  which 
are  such,  that  not  a  ray  is  lost  on  them.  From  its 
multitudinous  points,  it  strongly  reflects  the  light  in 
all  directions,  and  reflects  it  when  other  bodies  do 
not.  Hence,  if  there  be  any  particles  of  light  left 
in  the  horizon,  though  too  few  to  give  visibility  to 
common  objects,  they  will  be  strongly  reflected  by 
the  snow.  The  doctor  had  been  informed  that  snow 
gave  light  in  the  night,  and  hence  arose  his  mistake. 
But  hud  that  ingenious  man  been  blessed  with  exter 
nal  vision,  he  would  doubtless  have  been  more  cor 
rect  in  In's  arrangement,  and  have  made  an  important 
distinction  between  cflluciU  light,  and  ellluent  light 
reflected. 

Although  shallow  water  be  not  at  all  phosphoric, 
ocean  water  is  highly  so.  But  the  sparkling  of  the 
briny  waves  must  not  be  confounded  with  ocean 
foam.  This  sparkling  is  often  observed  in  the 
smoothest  water,  independent  of  the  spray,  and  is 
really  dense  effluent  sunshine ;  while  the  visibility  of 
the  white  foam,  like  that  of  snow,  arises  from  no 
thing  more  than  its  property  of  strongly  reflecting 
the  effluent  light. 

18* 


210 


COROLLARIES. 

"  Every  white  ray  of  light  is  divisible  by  the 
prism  into  seven  distinct  smaller  rays ;  of  which,  the 
red  or  flame-colored  ray  is  the  strongest :  the  others 
gradually  diminish  in  strength;  and  the  violet  or 
blue-colored  ray  is  the  weakest  of  all."* 

1.  Light  is  the  only  inflammable  principle  of  all 
bodies,  and  is  what  most  writers  mean  by  phlo 
giston. 

2.  Light  and  heat  are  two  opposite  principles,  and 
when  they  meet  in  bodies,  they  mutually  expel  each 
other. 

3.  Light  and  heat  may,  notwithstanding,  be  uni 
ted  in  bodies  in  a  certain  proportion,  by  means  of  a 
third  principle ;  but  when  either  of  them  predomi 
nates,  a  decomposition  will  take  place. 

4.  All'light  is  sunshine. 

5.  Animal  and  vegetable  oils  are  composed  of 
light  and  phlegm,  with  some  heat. 

6.  Dephlcgmated  spirit  of  wine  is  composed  of 
sunshine  and  heat,  fixed  by  aerial  acid. 

7.  Dephlegmated    spirit    contains    the    greatest 
quantity  of  light  and  heat  of  any  known  sub 
stance. 

•  * 

\ 

*  Newton. 


211 

8.  Salt  of  nitre  possesses  the  greatest  quantity  of 
latent  light,  with  the  strongest  attraction  for  heat,  of 
any  known  substance. 

9.  All  flame  is  regenerated  sunshine. 

10.  The  particles  of  light  are  mutually  repellent. 

QUERIES. 

Ques.  1.    Why  are  vegetables  green? 

Ans.  Because  by  their  attraction  for  light,  they  ad 
mit  all  the  rays,  except  such  as  are  the  weakest ; 
and  those,  viz.  the  blue  and  yellow,  are  reflected 
from  their  surfaces,  and  occasion  their  green  color. 

Ques.  2.  Why  is  regenerated  sunshine,  or  flame, 
usually  of  a  deeper  red  than  the  simple  effluent  light 
of  the  sun  ? 

Ans.  Because  all  bodies,  into  which  light  enters  as 
a  component  principle,  receive  the  stronger  rays  of 
the  sun,  and  reflect  the  weaker :  hence,  latent  light 
contains  a  greater  proportion  of  the  flame-colored 
rays,  and  must,  when  regenerated,  appear  of  a 
deeper  red. 

Ques.  3.  Why  do  heated  and  burning  bodies 
flame  or  glow  1 

Ans.  Because  the  heat  expands,  dilates,  and  de 
composes  the  burning  substance,  and  expels  the 
latent  light. 


212 

dues.  4.    Why  does  rotten  wood  shine  at  night? 

Ans.  Because  by  putrefaction,  a  decomposition  of 
its  parts  takes  place,  and  the  light  becomes  regenera 
ted  by  its  own  elasticity. 

dues.  5.  Why  do  other  putrefying  substances,  as 
fish,  &c.,  shine  at  night  ? 

Ans.    From  the  same  cause. 

dues.  6.    Why  do  they  not  shine  by  day  ? 

Ans.  Because  the  strength  and  velocity  of  the 
sol%r  rays  act  as  a  repulsive  pressure  on  the  surfaces 
of  bodies,  and  hinder  the  eflluence  of  their  latent 
light. 

dues.  7.  Why  do  they  shine  most  in  the  dark 
est  night? 

Ans.  Because  the  less  effluent  light  surrounds 
them,  the  less  their  latent  light  is  pressed  upon  or 
repelled,  and  the  more  copious  and  strong  is  its  sepa 
ration.. 

Ques.  8.  Why  do  not  all  putrefying  substances 
shine  ?  - 

Ans.  Because  their  latent  light,  instead  of  flying 
off,  is  powerfully  attracted  by  some  other  principle ; 
e.  g.  when  vegetable  and  animal  substances  putrefy, 
the  oil  and  spirit  arc  not  always  decomposed,  but  are 
sometimes  evaporated,  and  sometimes  unite  with  the 
acid  of  the  earth,  and  form  nitre. 


213 

dues.  9.    Why  is  shallow  water  transparent  ? 

Ans.  Because  its  particles  do  not  touch  one  an 
other  :*  it  consequently  possesses  large  pores,  which 
in  a  still  time  are  rectilineal  or  nearly  so,  and  trans 
mit  the  rays  of  light  with  facility. 

dues.  10.    Why  is  the  water  of  the  ocean  blue  ? 

Ans.  Because  water,  from  its  large  vacuities,  is 
easily  pervaded  by  nearly  all  the  rays  of  light ;  con 
sequently,  none  are  repelled  from  its  surface,  but  the 
weaker  or  blue  rays. 

dues.  11.    Why  is  sea- water  green? 

Ans.  From  the  united  reflections  of  light  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  the  surface  of  the  water* 
The  blue  rays  are  reflected  from  the  surface.  The  . 
yellow,  next  in  strength,  penetrate  to  the  bottom, 
and  are  there  reflected ;  they  pass  up  through  the 
water,  unite  with  the  blue  rays,  and  form  green. 

dues.  12.     Why  is  sea-water  sometimes  blue  ? 

Ans.  Because  from  a  conjunction  of  several 
causes,  as  the  ruffling  of  winds,  a  greater  saltness 
or  compactness  of  the  water,  and  a  difference  in  the 
bed  of  the  sea,  the  reflection  from  the  bottom  becomes 
imperceptible. 


*  This  remarkable  property  of  water  shall  be  treated  of 
in  another  place. 


214 

Ques.  13.  Why  is  the  foam  of  the  ocean  white  ? 
Ans.  The  air,  which  enters  the  pores  of  water, 
is  by  the  agitation  of  the  waves  more  and  more  inti 
mately  blended  with  it ;  whence  the  particles  are 
divided  and  blown  up,  and  the  rarified  mass,  having 
no  rectilineal  pores,  but  containing  the  greatest  va 
riety  of  polished  surface,  reflects  the  rays  of  light 
from  every  point :  and  as  in  this  case  no  particles 
are  absorbed,  the  whole  rays  are  reflected,  and  the 
foam  is  consequently  white.* 

Ques.  14.  Why  does  one  light  deaden  the  splen 
dor  of  another  1 

Ans.  From  the  repellency  of  the  luminous  par 
ticles. 

Ques  15.  Why  does  the  effluent  sunshine  extin 
guish  the  light  of  flame  in  a  wood  tire  ? 

This  is  answered  under  questions  6  and  14.  Ber 
cause  the  solar  rays  repel  the  regenerated  light 
within  the  interstices  of  the  wood,  as  fast  as  it  is 
separated  by  the  decomposition  of  heat :  whence  the 
effluent  light  cannot  rush  forth  in  streams,  but  is 


*  This  is  the  case  with  ice  and  snow.  Thin  glass  is 
generally  blue  ;  thicker  or  more  compact  glass  reflects  more 
rays,  and  is  green :  but  if  the  rectilineality  of  its  pores  is 
destroyed  by  pulverization,  every  kind  of  glass  becomes 
white. 


215 

collected  around  the  burning  substance,  and  by  the 
repellency  of  heat  is  driven  off  in  a  dense  glow. 

dues.  16.  Why  does  the  sun  appear  red  through 
mist? 

Ans.  Because  the  weaker  rays  are  reflected  from 
the  superior  surfaces  of  the  collected  mist,  cloud,  or 
vapor ;  and  consequently  among  these  rays  which 
penetrate  through  and  reach  us,  the  flame-colored 
ray  bears  more  than  a  usual  proportion. 

dues.  17.  Why  is  the  moon's  radiance  paler 
than  that  of  the  sun  ? 

Ans.  Because  the  strong  red  rays  penetrate  the 
lunar  surface,  the  weaker  rays  are  principally  re 
flected.* 

In  the  beautiful  and  sublime  fabric  of  the  universe 
not  an  atom  is  lost.  Such  is  the  economy  of  na 
ture  !  Matter  is  still  varying  itself  under  new  forms, 
its  essence  still  unvaried.  Flame,  and  all  kinds  of 
regenerated  light,  we  know,  do  not  loosely  adhere  to 
terreous  substance,  but  in  the  moment  of  their  sepa 
ration  acquire  a  velocity  upwards :  and  as  the  rays 


*  This  almost  entire  absence  of  the  active  red  ray  ap. 
pears  to  be  one  reason,  why  the  moonbeams  do  not  reflect 
heat,  or,  in  common  language,  why  the  light  of  the  moon  is 
cold. 


216 

cannot  be  lost,  they  are  undoubtedly  accumulated 
somewhere,  most  probably  in  the  superior  atmo 
spheric  regions;*  and  here  they  are  doubtless  the 
occasion  of  all  lucid  meteors,  aurora;  boreales,  &c.  &c. 

Ques.  18.  Why.  may  not  the  solar  effluent  rays, 
meeting  with  particles  of  rare  light  above  the  atmo 
sphere,  drive  them  back  by  their  repellency,  giving 
them  a  velocity  downward,  like  true  primitive  sun 
shine  ?  and  if  so — 

Q,ues.  19.  Why  may  not  the  light,  this  day 
regenerated  from  the  fuel  burnt  in  my  chimney, 
ascend  to  the  superior  regions  of  the  atmosphere, 
appear  to-night  in  a  thousand  meteors,  and  to-nior- 

.  *  It  may  be  here  objected,  that  light  cannot  be  accumula 
ted  in  superior  regions  of  the  atmosphere :  because  in  that 
case  it  would  certainly  be  visible,  and  the  earth  would  be 
illuminated  in  the  absence,  as  well  as  in  the  presence  of  the 
sun.  But  it  must  be  considered,  that  the  velocity  of  such 
light  is  determined  upwards,  as  appears  by  the  ascent  of 
flame.  Now  if  this  light  gives  no  rays  downward,  to  act 
on  the  optic  nerve,  it  is  invisible  or  latent,  to  all  intents. 
If  light  be  not  radiant,  if  it  does  not  reach  and  penetrate 
the  eye,  it  certainly  cannot  be  seen  however  great  its  accu 
mulation  ;  but  if  by  any  power  acting  on  it  above,  it  acquires , 
a  velocity  downward,  it  becomes  visible,  by  penetrating  the 
eye,  being  refracted  by  the  aqueous  and  crystaline  humors, 
collected  by  the  vitreous  humor,  and  reflected  from  the 
retina. 


217 

row  by  the  repellency  of  the  solar  rays  be  driven 
once  more  to  the  earth,  in  the  form  of  primitive  sun 
shine? 

dues.  20.  Action  and  reaction  being  always 
supposed  equal,  why  may  not  the  effluent  light  of 
this  earth  exert  an  action  similar  to  the  above  men 
tioned,  on  the  solar  rays,  viz.  repelling  them  back 
ward,  and  giving  them  a  velocity  downward  to  the 
sun's  surface?  and  if  so — . 

Ques.  21.  Why  may  not  the  earth  and  the  other 
planetary  bodies  become  suns  to  the  central  star  of 
our  system  ?  Why  may  they  not  occasion  light  and 
heat  in  his  body,  in  the  same  manner  as  he  is  sup 
posed  to  be  the  dispenser  of  both  to  the  lesser  bodies 
which  surround  him  ? 

But  here  we  stop !  In  treading  the  path  of  curious 
investigation,  we  have  been  led  by  an  Ariadne1*: 
clue  far  beyond  the  regions  of  demonstration.  We 
have  passed  the  bounds  allotted  to  mortals,  and 
dared  to  propose  some  queries  which  none,  perhaps, 
but  disembodied  spirits  can  resolve.  It  is  now  time 
to  retire ;  for  while  with  humble  hearts,  and  eyes 
trembling  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  we  endeavor  to 
explore  some  outline  of  adorable  Omniscience,  we 
must  not  expect  to  investigate  the  GREAT  FIRST 
19 


218 

CAUSE,  nor  "  remove  the  vail  which  God  has  drawn 
around  his  incomprehensible  Majesty." 

"  Forbear,  rash  mortal !  'tis  an  impious  aim ; 
.Own  God  immediate  acting  through  the  frame : 
.    'Tis  he  omnipotent  o'er  all  presides ; 
He,  the  First  Cause,  each  operation  guides. 
Fear  on  his  awful  privacy  to  press ; 
But  honoring  him,  thy  ignorance  confess," 

This  little  essay  is  now  completed.    The  author' 
has  not  endeavored  to  appear  learned,  by  lengthy 
quotations :  it  was  his  intention  to  be  universally 
understood,  as  that  is  always  the  first  step  to  convic 
tion.     He  has  therefore  written  as  easily  as  the  sub 
ject  would  admit,  and  sometimes  has  attempted 
demonstration.    He  humbly  hopes  that  he  has  in 
some  measure  succeeded  in  both.    M.  Macquer,  it  is 
true,  has  very  ingeniously  substituted  light  instead 
of  the  phlogiston  of  Stahl;  but  the  author  of  this 
treatise  believes  his  doctrine  of  regenerated  light  to 
be  notwithstanding  original.     He  has  borrowed  little 
from  authors,  and  flatter?  himself,  that  on  a  subject 
of  such  difficult  access,  the  want  of  perspicuity  or 
accurate  arrangement,  will  be  compensated  by  the 
merit  of  the  disquisition,  if  it  contains  any.    But  if 


219 

the  eye  of  candor  discerns  no  beauties  in  the  work, 
to  counterbalance  its  numerous  faults,  it  is  the  au 
thor's  fervent  wish,  that  the  waters  of  Lethe  may 
soon  wash  it  from  remembrance,  and  the  vail  of 
oblivion  be  drawn  over  it  forever. 


220 


VIEW   OF   SOCIETY   AND   MANNERS   IN 
SOUTH   CAROLINA, 

LETTER  I. 

'   Charleston,  Sept.  1785. 

You  have  often,  my  dear  friend,  importuned  me 
to  give  you  a  description  of  the  people,  among  whom 
I  have  for  some  time  resided.  A  cruel  indisposition, 
which  threatened  my  life,  has  hitherto  prevented  me 
from  answering  your  request  But  at  present,  as  I 
am  a  little  recovered,  I  feel  myself  disposed  to  write 
you  the  desired  information.  South  Carolina  is  at 
this  season  a  most  disagreeable  country.  The  plea 
sures  of  society  are  sacrificed  to  more  important  con 
siderations  ;  and  every  one  is  solicitous  for  the  pre 
servation  of  health.  Autumnal  intermittents  rage 
in  the  country ;  while  Charleston,  that  Montpelier  of 
the  state,  is  filled  with  contagious  disease.  Families, 
to  avoid  the  small  pox,  whooping  cough,  or  malig 
nant  cynanohe,  remove  into  the  country.  They 
are  there  met  by  the  epidemic  autumnal  ague. 
Others  fly  the  country,  and  escape  an  intermittent ; 


221 

but  to  their  cost,  experience  that  Charleston  affords 
no  asylum,  from  the  dire  visitations  of  an  autumnal 
fever.    In  other  countries,  summer  is  considered  as 
the  most  pleasant ;  winter  the  most  disagreeable  of 
seasons.    In  Carolina  we  see  just  the  reverse.    Here 
people  remove  to  town  for  safety,  at  the  time  when 
others  in  a  different  clime  are  seeking  for  pleasure  in 
the  country.    Yet  nature,  ever  impartial  in  the  dis 
tribution  of  favors,  has  not  denied  them  to  Carolina. 
No  climate  on  earth  is  blessed  with  a  mon  clement 
winter,  and  the  pleasures  of  this  season  rrake  more 
than  ample  amends  for  the  gloom  of  a  disagreeable 
summer.    Plays,  concerts,  and  assemblies  amuse  the 
town ;  visiting,  entertainments,  and  parties  of  amuse 
ment  are  the  pleasures  of  the  country.     Debilitated 
by  the  heat  of  their  summer,  the  natives  seem  in  this 
season  to  acquire  new  life.    All  nature  wears  the 
face  of  animation.    Joy   becomes   general.     The 
contagion  of  pleasure  spreads  over  the  whole  land. 
And  now  we  behold  Carolina  as  the  most  agreeable 
country  perhaps  in  the  whole  universe. 

That  leading  feature,  which  strikes  us  in  ihe 

national  character  of  the  Carolinians,  is  their  hospi- 

itality;  and  in  this  particular  they  are  equaled  by 

the  inhabitants  of  few  countries  in  the  present  age. 

Their  inns  of  entertainment  are  very  bad :  indeed, 

19* 


they  are  but  little  frequented ;  since  every  house  is  a 
caravansary,  where  the  wearied  traveler  is  sure  of  a 
welcome  reception,  refreshment,  and  repose.  Here 
it  may  be  said  of  the  generous  inhabitant,  that  like 
the  good  Axylus, 

"  Fast  by  the  road,  his  ever  open  door 
Obliged  the  wealthy,  and  relieved  the  poor."* 

In  this  respect,  and  in  this  only,  do  the  Caroli 
nians  imitate  the  simplicity  of  ancient  ages.  At 
mentioning  this  circumstance,  an  accession  of  pleas 
ing  ideas  crowd  around  me.  The  imagination 
flies  back  to  the  happy  days  of  yore,  when  sacred 
was  the  name  of  stranger ;  when  the  laws  of  hos 
pitality  were  traced  to  their  divine  origin,  and  became 
a  feature  of  religious  duty — 

"  'Tis  Jove  unfolds  the  hospitable  door, 

'Tis  Jove  that  sends  the  stranger  and  the  poor."* 

Warm  climates  generally  enfeeble  the  genius,  but 
expand  the  heart.  The  fibres  are  relaxed ;  the  rigid 
vessels  become  soft ;  the  circulation  is  easy,  for  the 


*  Pope's  Homer. 


223 

resistance  is  small,  and  the  impediments  few.  If  the 
blood  be  not  of  the  most  generous  texture,  it  never 
teems  with  inflammation,  as  in  the  inhabitants  of 
colder  climates.  But  the  bland  fluids  flow  in  the 
same  calm  channel  with  those  of  the  new-born 
infant.  This  is  the  argument,  I  own,  of  a  sys 
tematic  ;  but  I  do  not  mean  to  apply  it  wholly  to 
the  inhabitants  of  Carolina.  Their  affability,  their 
courteous  manners,  and  the  polite  attention  with 
which  strangers  are  treated  by  them,  appear  to  me 
partly  the  effects  of  constitution,  and  partly  of  situa 
tion  in  life.  It  is  far  from  my  intention,  however, 
to  insinuate  that  they  are  the  less  commendable  on 
that  account.  I  venerate,  I  esteem  the  social  and 
friendly  intercourse:  for  beauteous  art  thou,  oh 
benevolence !  there  is  divinity  in  thy  very  shadow. 
Let  us  adore  the  lovely  goddess  wherever  we  meet 
her ;  nor  bestow  the  trouble  of  a  thought  from  whence 
she  came.  "  Hail !  ye  sweet  courtesies  of  human 
life ;  for  smooth  and  pleasant  do  ye  make  the  road 
of  it.  Like  grace  and  beauty,  which  beget  inclina 
tion  at  first  sight,  it  is  ye  who  open  the  door,  and  let 
the  stranger  in."*  In  their  entertainments  this  peo 
ple  are  said  to  be  rather  profuse.  But  it  should  be 

*  Sterne. 


224 

considered,  that  Heaven  has  bestowed  on  them  with 
the  liberal  hand  of  profusion.  And  to  that  blessing's 
donor,  the  most  grateful  acknowledgment,  in  the 
power  of  mortals,  is  a  cheerful  enjoyment.  For  let 
the  cynic  bark  as  he  pleases,  it  will  evefr  be  good 
Catholicism,  that  "to  enjoy  is  to  obey." 


LETTER  II. 

HAPPY  should  I  be,  if,  with  the  same  ease,  I  could 
set  aside  a  charge  against  the  Carolinians,  of  a  more 
serious  nature.  Dissolute  pleasures,  and  luxury  of 
every  kind,  form  another  grand  feature  of  their 
national  character.  I  censure  not  the  profusion  of 
their  tables,  it  is  the  profusion  of*  Heaven;  but  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  table  they  are  too  much  addicted. 
Here,  and  in  every  species  of  luxurious  indulgence, 
they  seem  galloping  hard  after  the  dissolute  Euro 
peans  ;  and  small  are  the  powers  requisite  to  discern 
that  they  are  not  very  far  behind  them.  I  intend 
not  to  trouble  my  friend  with  a  dry  dissertation  on 
luxury,  or  an  examination  whether,  considered  ab 
stractedly,  it  be  criminal  or  not.  Among  individuals, 
in  some  cases,  it  may  not  be  criminal :  but  when  it 
is  no  crime  it  is  always  a  vice ;  and  a  vice,  with 


225 

respect  to  society,  of  the  most  dangerous  nature. 
The  ravages  of  war  will  deface  a  country ;  but  the 
effects  of  luxury  are  more  fatal,  and  more  deadly, 
than  the  ravages  of  war.  It  corrupts  the  morals, 
enfeebles  the  mind,  and  diseases  the  body.  Destruc 
tion  is  sure  in  his  aim,  and  rapid  in  his  march.  At 
length,  the  unexpected  catastrophe  arrives ;  the 
ruined  people  look  round  them  with  amazement, 

,  and  wonder  at  their  situation.  Such  are  the  effects 
of  luxury  in  a  nation ;  it  is  the  bane  of  society ;  it 
is  the  bane  of  government ;  it  is  treason  against  the 

•  state ;  it  is  big  with  the  ruin  of  nations.  These  are 
gloomy  reflections;  but  arising  naturally  from  the 
subject,  they  intrude  themselves  on  the  mind,  and  it 
•  is  impossible  to  avoid  them.  Bacchus  ia  a  deity 
much  respected  in  this  country;  and  no  objection 
can  be  made  to  tbe  sway  of  so  amiable,  mirth-inspi 
ring  a  divinity,  when  limited  by  prudence  and 
moderation.  But  (is  that  can  seldom  happen,  the 
objections  against  this  custom  become  serious  and 
weighty  t  it  is  a  species  of  luxury  the  most  danger 
ous,  because  leading  directly  to  all  others  ;  but  it  is  a 
species  for  which  Carolinians  are  most  excusable. 
Without  the  assistance  of  wine,  in  all  warm  climates 
the  mind  is  enervated,  the  spirits  become  languid, 
and  the  imagination  effete.  It  is  known  to  all  phy- 


226 

sicians,  that  wine  by  its  tonic  quality  obviates  the  de 
bility  induced  by  climate ;  and  that  the  effects  of 
putrid  miasmata  are  destroyed  by  its  antiseptic 
power.  Hence,  the  use  of  wine  in  warm  and  sickly 
climates  becomes  obvious;  and  hence,  a  rational 
cause  why  the  inhabitants  of  those  climates  are  so 
generally  addicted  to  the  bottle. 

With  the  introduction  of  luxury  in  this  country, 
religion  has  visibly  declined.  These  are,  in  every 
state,  symptoms  of  approaching  ruin.  Where 
effeminacy  prevails ;  where  religion,  whether  true  or 
false,  is  in  rapid  decay ;  the  state  is  in  danger,  and 
destruction  is  at  hand.  Such  has  ever  been  the 
downfall  of  empires,  since  the  commencement  of 
the  world :  they  have  all  had  their  rise,  their  pro 
gress,  and  their  decline.  But  who,  without  melan 
choly,  can  observe  the  first  state  in  our  union,  has 
tening  to  early  destruction;  falling  like  untimely 
fruit ;  and  withering  immature  ?  Though  the  Caro 
linians  be  not  a  religious  people,  they  are  not  super 
stitious  ;  their  enlarged  understandings,  and  elevated 
ijleas,  have  protected  them  on  that  side.  Theatrical 
amusements  have  been  introduced  and  encouraged 
among  them.  .  These,  though  they  form  a  species  of 
refined  luxury,  are  of  many  others  the  least  danger 
ous.  Their  political  damage  is  not  so  great ;  since, 


227 

while  they  form  the  manners  of  a  people,  they 
seldom  impoverish  the  country.    Actors  are  generally 
profuse  in  living ;  they  seldom  deprive  a  country  of 
its  cash.    Hence,  money  in  their  hands  is  not  lost : 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  put  in  circulation.    In  coun 
tries  where  slavery  is  encouraged,  the  ideas  of  the 
people  are  of  a  peculiar  cast.    The  soul  becomes 
dark,  narrow,  and  assumes  a  tone  of  savage  bru 
tality.    Such  at  this  day  are  the  inhabitants  of  Bar- 
bary,  and  the  West  Indies.    But,  thank  God !  no 
thing  like  this  has  yet  disgraced  an  American  state 
We  may  look  for  it  in  Carolina,  but  we  shall  be 
disappointed.    The  most  elevated  and  liberal  Caro 
linians  abhor  slavery  j  they  will  not  debase  them- 
'  selves  by  attempting  to  vindicate  it.    He  who  would 
encourage  it,  abstracted  from  the  idea  of  bare  neces 
sity,  is  not  a  man ;  he  is  a  brute  in  human  form. 
For  "  disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  oh  slavery !  still 
thou  art  a  bitter  draught."    It  is  interest,  louder  than 
the  voice  of  reason,  which  alone  exclaims  in  thy 
favor. 

Among  their  neighbors,  the  Carolinians  stand 
accused  of  haughtiness  and  insolent  carriage.  No 
thing  is  apparently  more  true  than  this  charge ; 
nothing  is  really  more  false.  Surrounded  by  slaves, 
and  accustomed  to  command,  they  acquire  a  for- 


228 

• 

ward,  dictatorial  habit,  which  can  never  be  laid 
aside.  In  order  to  judge  of  their  dispositions,  we 
must  study  them  with  attention.  Courtesy,  affa 
bility,  and  politeness  form  their  distinguishing  cha 
racteristics.  For  these,  for  the  exercise  of  hospi 
tality,  and  all  the  social  virtues,  I  venture  to  assert 
that  no  country  on  earth  has  equaled  Carolina. 


804& 


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LIBRARY,   UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,   DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50wj-8,'66(G5530s4)45S 


N°  471664 

PS791 

Ladd,  J.B.  L15 

The  literary  remains.    1832 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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